P

ROLOGUE

 

Latham Weekly, June 2, 1998 
BIZARRE MURDERS COMMITTED IN RACCOON CITY 
-The mutilated body of forty-two-year-old 
Anna Mitaki was discovered late yesterday in an abandoned 
lot not far from her home in northwest Raccoon City, 
making her the fourth victim of the supposed "cannibal 
killers" to be found in or near the Victory Lake district in 
the last month. Consistent with the coroner reports of the 
other recent victims, Mitaki's corpse showed evidence of 
having been partially eaten, the bite patterns apparently 
formed by human jaws. 
Shortly after the discovery of Miss Mitaki by two joggers 
at approximately nine o'clock last night, Chief Irons made a 
brief statement insisting that the RPD is "working diligently 
to apprehend the perpetrators of such heinous crimes" and 
that he is currently consulting with city officials about more 
drastic protection measures for Raccoon citizens. 
In addition to the murderous spree of the cannibal 
killers, three others have died from probable animal attacks 
in Raccoon Forest in the past several weeks, bringing the 
toll of mysterious deaths up to seven. . . . 
Raccoon Times, June 22, 1998 
HORROR IN RACCOON CITY 
MORE VICTIMS DEAD 
-The bodies of a young couple were found 
early Sunday morning in Victory Park, making Deanne 
Rusch and Christopher Smith the eighth and ninth victims 
in the reign of violence that has terrorized the city since 
mid-May of this year. 
Both victims, aged 19, were reported as missing by 
concerned parents late Saturday night and were discovered 
by police officers on the west bank of Victory Lake 
at approximately 2 A.M. Although no formal statement 
has been issued .by the police department, witnesses to 
the discovery confirm that both youths suffered wounds 
similar to those found on prior victims. Whether or not 
the attackers were human or animal has yet to be 
announced. 
According to friends of the young couple, the two had 
talked about tracking down the rumored "wild dogs" 
recently spotted in the heavily forested park and had 
planned to violate the city-wide curfew in order to see one of 
the alleged nocturnal creatures. 
Mayor Harris has scheduled a press conference for this 
afternoon, and is expected to make an announcement 
regarding the current crisis, calling for a stricter enforce- 
ment of the curfew. . 

Cityside, July 21, 1998 
"S.T.A.R.S." SPECIAL TACTICS AND RESCUE 
SQUAD SENT TO SAVE RACCOON CITY 
With the reported disappearance of three 
hikers in Raccoon Forest earlier this week, city officials have 
finally called for a roadblock on rural Route 6 at the foothills 
of the Arklay Mountains. Police Chief Brian Irons an- 
nounced yesterday that the S.T.A.R.S. will participate full- 
time in the search for the hikers and will also be working 
closely with the RPD until there is an end to the rash of 
murders and disappearances that are destroying our community 
Chief Irons, a former S.T.A.R.S. member himself, said 
today (in an exclusive Cityside telephone interview) that it is 
"high time to employ the talents of these dedicated men and 
women toward the safety of this city. We've had nine brutal 
murders here in less than two months, and at least five 
disappearances now-and all of these events have taken 
place in a close proximity to Raccoon Forest. This leads us to 
believe that the perpetrators of these crimes may be hiding 
somewhere in the Victory Lake district, and the S.T.A.R.S. 
have just the kind of experience we need to find them." 
When asked why the S.T.A.R.S. hadn't been assigned to 
these cases until now, Chief Irons would only say that the 
S.T.A.R.S. have been assisting the RPD since the beginning 
and that they would be a "welcome addition" to the task 
force currently working on the murders full-time. 
Founded in New York in 1967, the privately funded 
S.T.A.R.S. organization was originally created as a measure 
against cult-affiliated terrorism by a group of retired military 
officials and ex-field operatives from both the CIA and FBI. 
Under the guidance of former NSDA (National Security and 
Defense Agency) director Marco Palmieri, the group quickly 
expanded its services to include everything from hostage 
negotiation and code breaking to riot control. Working with 
local police agencies, each branch office of the S.T.A.R.S. is 
designed to work as a complete unit itself. The S.T.A.R.S. 
set up its Raccoon City branch through the fund-raising 
efforts of several local businesses in 1972 and is currently 
led by Captain Albert Wesker, promoted to the position less 
than six months ago. 

O

NE

 

JILL WAS ALREADY LATE FOR THE BRIEFING 
when she somehow managed to drop her keys into her 
cup of coffee on the way out the door. There was a 
muted ting as they hit the bottom, and as she paused 
in mid-stride, staring in disbelief at the steaming 
ceramic mug, the thick stack of files she carried under 
her other arm slid smoothly to the floor. Paper clips 
and sticky notes scattered across the tan carpeting. 

"Ah, shit." 
She checked her watch as she turned back toward 
the kitchen, cup in hand. Wesker had called the 
meeting for 1900 sharp, which meant she had about 
nine minutes to make the ten-minute drive, find 
parking and get her butt into a chair. The first full 
disclosure meeting since the S.T.A.R.S. had gotten 
the case - hell, the first real meeting since she'd made 
the Raccoon transfer-and she was going to be late. 
Figures. Probably the first time in years I actually 
give a rat's ass about being on time and I fall apart at 
the door. . . . 
Muttering darkly she hurried to the sink, feeling 
tense and angry with herself for not getting ready 
earlier. It was the case, the goddamn case. She'd 
picked up her copies of the ME files right after 
breakfast and spent all day digging through the re- 
ports, searching for something that the cops had 
somehow missed and feeling more and more frus- 
trated as the day slipped past and she'd failed to come 
up with anything new. 
She dumped the mug and scooped up the warm, 
wet keys, wiping them against her jeans as she hurried 
back to the front door. She crouched down to gather 
the files-and stopped, staring down at the glossy 
color photo that had ended up on top. 
Oh, girls. . . . 
She picked it up slowly, knowing that she didn't 
have time and yet unable to look away from the tiny, 
blood-spattered faces. She felt the knots of tension 
that had been building all day intensify, and for a 
moment it was all she could do to breathe as she 
stared at the crime scene photo. Becky and Priscilla 
McGee, ages nine and seven. She'd flipped past it 
earlier, telling herself that there was nothing there she 
needed to see. . . . 
. . . But it isn 't true, is it? You can keep pretending, 
or you can admit it-everything's different now, it's 
been different since the day they died. 
When she'd first moved to Raccoon, she'd been 
under a lot of stress, feeling uncertain about the 
transfer, not even sure if she wanted to stay with the 
S.T.A.R.S. She was good at the job, but had only 
taken it because of Dick; after the indictment, he'd 
started to pressure her to get into another line of 
work. It had taken awhile, but her father was persis- 
tent, telling her again and again that one Valentine in 
jail was one too many, even admitting that he was 
wrong to raise her the way he had. With her training 
and background, there weren't a whole lot of op- 
tions - but the S.T.A.R.S., at least, appreciated her 

skills and didn't care how she came by them. The pay 
was decent, there was the element of risk she'd grown 
to enjoy. ... In retrospect, the career change had 
been surprisingly easy; it made Dick happy, and gave 
her the opportunity to see how the other half lived. 
Still, the move had been harder on her than she'd 
realized. For the first time since Dick had gone inside, 
she'd felt truly alone, and working for the law had 
started to seem like a joke - the daughter of Dick 
Valentine, working for truth, justice, and the Ameri- 
can way. Her promotion to the Alphas, a nice little 
house in the suburbs - it was crazy, and she'd been 
giving serious thought to just blowing out of town, 
giving the whole thing up, and going back to what 
she'd been before. . . . 
. . . until the two little girls who lived across the 
street had shown up on her doorstep and asked her 
with wide, tear-stained eyes if she was really a police- 
man. Their parents were at work, and they couldn't 
find their dog. . . . 
. . . Becky in her green school dress, little Pris in her 
overalls-both of them sniffling and shy . . . 
The pup had been wandering through a garden only 
a few blocks away, no sweat and she'd made two 
new friends, as easy as that. The sisters had promptly 
adopted Jill, showing up after school to bring her 
scraggly bunches of flowers, playing in her yard on 
weekends, singing her endless songs they'd learned 
from movies and cartoons. It wasn't like the girls had 
miraculously changed her outlook or taken away her 
loneliness, but somehow her thoughts of leaving had 
been put on a back burner, left alone for awhile. For 
the first time in her twenty-three years, she'd started 
to feel like a part of the community she lived and 
worked in, the change so subtle and gradual that she'd 
hardly noticed. 
Six weeks ago, Becky and Pris had wandered away 
from a family picnic in Victory Park and became 
the first two victims of the psychopaths that had since 
terrorized the isolated city. 
The photo trembled slightly in her hand, sparing 
her nothing. Becky lying on her back, staring blindly 
at the sky, a gaping, ragged hole in her belly. Pris was 
sprawled next to her, arms outstretched, chunks of 
flesh ripped savagely from the slender limbs. Both 
children had been eviscerated, dying of massive trau- 
ma before they'd bled out. If they'd screamed, no one 
had heard. . . 
Enough! They're gone, but you can finally do some- 
thing about it! 
Jill fumbled the papers back into their folder, then 

stepped outside into the early evening, breathing 
deeply. The scent of freshly cut grass was heavy in the 
sun-warmed air. Somewhere down the street, a dog 
barked happily amidst the shouts of children. 
She hurried to the small, dented gray hatchback 
parked by the front walk, forcing herself not to look at 
the silent McGee house as she started the car and 
pulled away from the curb. Jill drove through the wide 
suburban streets of her neighborhood, window down, 
pushing the speed limit but careful to watch for kids 
and pets. There weren't many of either around. Since 
the trouble had started, more and more people were 
keeping their children and animals indoors, even 
during the day. 
The little hatchback shuddered as she accelerated 
up the ramp to Highway 202, the warm, dry air 
whipping her long hair back from her face. It felt 
good, like waking up from a bad dream. She sped 
through the sun-dappled evening, the shadows of 
trees growing long across the road. 
Whether it was fate or just the luck of the draw, her 
life had been touched by what was happening in 
Raccoon City. She couldn't keep pretending that she 
was just some jaded ex-thief trying to stay out of jail, 
trying to toe the line to make her father happy, or 
that what the S.T.A.R.S. were about to do was just 
another job. It mattered. It mattered to her that those 
children were dead, and that the killers were still free 
to kill again. 
The victim files next to her fluttered slightly, the top 
of the folder caught by the wind; nine restless spirits, 
perhaps, Becky and Priscilla McGee's among them. 
She rested her right hand on the ruffled sheaf, 
stilling the gentle movement and swore to herself 
that no matter what it took, she was going to find out 
who was responsible. Whatever she'd been before, 
whatever she would be in the future, she had 
changed . . . and wouldn't be able to rest until these 
murderers of the innocent had been held accountable 
for their actions. 
 
"Yo, Chris!" 
Chris turned away from the soda machine and saw 
Forest Speyer striding down the empty hall toward 
him, a wide grin on his tanned, boyish face. Forest 
was actually a few years older than Chris, but looked 
like a rebellious teenager - long hair, studded jean 
jacket, a tattoo of a skull smoking a cigarette on his 
left shoulder. He was also an excellent mechanic, and 
one of the best shots Chris had ever seen in action. 
"Hey, Forest. What's up?" Chris scooped up a can 

of club soda from the machine's dispenser and 
glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of minutes 
before the meeting. He smiled tiredly as Forest 
stopped in front of him, blue eyes sparkling. Forest 
was carrying an armful of equipment-vest, utility 
belt, and shoulder pack. 
"Wesker gave Marini the go-ahead to start the 
search. Bravo team's goin' in." Even excited, Forest's 
Alabama twang slowed his words to a stereotypical 
drawl. He dropped his stuff on one of the visitors' 
chairs, still grinning widely. 
Chris frowned. "When?" 
"Now. Soon as I warm up the 'copter." Forest 
pulled the kevlar vest on over his T-shirt as he spoke. 
"While you Alphas sit taking notes, we're gonna go 
kick some cannibal ass!" 
Nothing if not confident, us S.T.A.R.S. "Yeah, 
well. .. just watch your ass, okay? I still think there's 
more going on here than a couple of slobbering nut 
jobs hanging around in the woods." 
"You know it." Forest pushed his hair back and 
grabbed his utility belt, obviously already focused on 
the mission. Chris thought about saying more, but 
decided against it. For all of his bravado, Forest was a 
professional; he didn't need to be told to be careful. 
You sure about that, Chris? You think Billy was 
careful enough? 
Sighing inwardly, Chris slapped Forest's shoulder 
lightly and headed for ops through the doorway of the 
small upstairs waiting room and down the hall. He 
was surprised that Wesker was sending the teams in 
separately. Although it was standard for the less 
experienced S.T.A.R.S. to do the initial recon, this 
wasn't exactly a standard operation. The number of 
deaths they were dealing with alone was enough to 
call for a more aggressive offense. The fact that there 
were signs of organization to the murders should have 
brought it to A1 status, and Wesker was still treating it 
like some kind of a training run. 
Nobody else sees it; they didn't know Billy...  
Chris thought again about the late-night call he'd 
gotten last week from his childhood friend. He hadn't 
heard from Billy in awhile, but knew that he'd taken a 
research position with Umbrella, the pharmaceutical 
company that was the single biggest contributor to the 
economic prosperity of Raccoon City. Billy had never 
been the type to jump at shadows, and the terrified 
desperation in his voice had jolted Chris awake, filling 
him with deep concern. Billy had babbled that his life 
was in danger, that they were all in danger, begged 
Chris to meet him at a diner at the edge of town and 

then never showed up. No one had heard from him 
since. 
Chris had run it over and over again in his mind 
during the sleepless nights since Billy's disappear- 
ance, trying to convince himself that there was no 
connection to the attacks on Raccoon and yet was 
unable to shake his growing certainty that there was 
more going on than met the eye, and that Billy had 
known what it was. The cops had checked out Billy's 
apartment and found nothing to indicate foul 
play ... but Chris's instincts told him that his friend 
was dead, and that he'd been killed by somebody who 
wanted to keep him from talking. 
And I seem to be the only one. Irons doesn't give a 
shit, and the team thinks I'm just torn up over the loss 
of an old friend.   
He pushed the thoughts aside as he turned the 
corner, his boot heels sending muted echoes through 
the arched second floor corridor. He had to focus, to 
keep his mind on what he could do to find out why 
Billy had disappeared, but he was exhausted, run- 
ning on a minimum of sleep and an almost constant 
anxiety that had plagued him since Billy's call. Maybe 
he was losing his perspective, his objectivity dulled by 
recent events. . .  
He forced himself not to think about anything at all 
as he neared the S.T.A.R.S. office, determined to be 
clear-headed for the meeting. The buzzing fluores- 
cents above seemed like overkill in the blazing eve- 
ning light that filled the tight hallway; the Raccoon 
police building was a classic, if unconventional, piece 
of architecture, lots of inlaid tile and heavy wood, but 
it had too many windows designed to catch the sun. 
When he'd been a kid, the building had been the 
Raccoon City Hall. With the population increase a 
decade back, it had been renovated as a library, and 
four years ago, turned into a police station. It seemed 
like there was always some kind of construction going 
on. 
The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office stood open, the 
muted sounds of gruff male voices spilling out into 
the hall. Chris hesitated a moment, hearing Chief 
Irons's among them. "Just call me Brian" Irons was a 
self-centered and self-serving politician masquerad- 
ing as a cop. It was no secret that he had his sweaty 
fingers in more than a few local pies. He'd even been 
implicated in the Cider district land-scam back in '94, 
and although nothing had been proved in court, 
anyone who knew him personally didn't harbor any 
doubt. 
Chris shook his head, listening to Irons's greasy 

voice. Hard to believe he'd once led the Raccoon 
S.T.A.R.S., even as a paper-pusher. Maybe even hard- 
er to believe that he'd probably end up as mayor 
someday. 
Of course, it doesn't help much that he hates your 
guts, does it, Redfield? 
Yeah, well. Chris didn't like to kiss ass, and Irons 
didn't know how to have any other kind of relation- 
ship. At least Irons wasn't a total incompetent, he'd 
had some military training. Chris pasted on a straight 
face and stepped into the small, cluttered office that 
served as the S.T.A.R.S. filing cabinet and base of 
operations. 
Barry and Joseph were over by the rookie desk, 
going through a box of papers and talking quietly. 
Brad Vickers, the Alpha pilot, was drinking coffee and 
staring at the main computer screen a few feet away, a 
sour expression on his mild features. Across the room 
Captain Wesker was leaning back in his chair, hands 
behind his head, smiling blankly at something Chief 
Irons was telling him. Irons's bulk was leaned against 
Wesker's desk, one pudgy hand brushing at his care- 
fully groomed mustache as he spoke. 
"So I said, 'You're gonna print what I tell you to 
print, Bertolucci, and you're gonna like it, or you'll 
never get another quote from this office!' And he 
says" 
"Chris!" Wesker interrupted the chief, sitting for- 
ward. "Good, you're here. Looks like we can stop 
wasting time." 
Irons scowled in his direction but Chris kept his 
poker face. Wesker didn't care much for Irons, either, 
and didn't bother trying to be any more than polite in 
his dealings with the man. From the glint in his eye, it 
was obvious that he didn't care who knew it, either. 
Chris walked into the office and stood by the desk 
he shared with Ken Sullivan, one of the Bravo team. 
Since the teams usually worked different shifts, they 
didn't need much room. He set the unopened can of 
soda on the battered desktop and looked at Wesker. 
"You're sending Bravo in?" 
The captain gazed back at him impassively, arms 
folded across his chest. "Standard procedure, Chris." 
Chris sat down, frowning. "Yeah, but with what we 
talked about last week, I thought" 
Irons interrupted. "I gave the order, Redfield. I 
know you think that there's some kind of cloak and 
dagger going on here, but 7 don't see any reason to 
deviate from policy." 
Sanctimonious prick. . . . 
Chris forced a smile, knowing it would irritate 

Irons. "Of course, sir. No need to explain yourself on 
my behalf." 
Irons glared at him for a moment, his piggy little 
eyes snapping, then apparently decided to let it drop. 
He turned back to Wesker. "I'll expect a report when 
Bravo returns. Now if you'll excuse me, Captain." 
Wesker nodded. "Chief." 
Irons stalked past Chris and out of the room. He'd 
been gone less than a minute before Barry started in. 
"Think the chief took a shit today? Maybe we all 
oughtta chip in for Christmas, get him some laxa- 
tives." 
Joseph and Brad laughed, but Chris couldn't bring 
himself to join in. Irons was a joke, but his mishan- 
dling of this investigation wasn't all that funny. The 
S.T.A.R.S. should've been called in at the beginning 
instead of acting as RPD back up. 
He looked back at Wesker, the man's perpetually 
composed expression hard to read. Wesker had taken 
over the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. only a few months ago, 
transferred by the home office in New York, and Chris 
still didn't have any real insight into his character. 
The new captain seemed to be everything he was 
reputed to be: smooth, professional, cool, but there 
was a kind of distance to him, a sense that he was 
often far removed from what was going on.  
Wesker sighed and stood up. "Sorry, Chris. I know 
you wanted things to go different, but Irons didn't put 
a whole lot of stock into your . . . misgivings." 
Chris nodded. Wesker could make recommenda- 
tions, but Irons was the only one who could upgrade a 
mission's status. "Not your fault." 
Barry walked toward them, scruffing at his short, 
reddish beard with one giant fist. Barry Burton was 
only six feet tall but built like a truck. His only 
passion outside of his family and his weapons collec- 
tion was weight lifting, and it showed. 
"Don't sweat it, Chris. Marini will call us in the 
second he smells trouble. Irons is just pullin' your 
chain." 
Chris nodded again, but he didn't like it. Hell, 
Enrico Marini and Forest Speyer were the only experi- 
enced soldiers in Bravo. Ken Sullivan was a good 
scout and a brilliant chemist, but in spite of his 
S.T.A.R.S. training, he couldn't shoot the broad side 
of a barn. Richard Aiken was a top-rate communica- 
tions expert, but he also lacked field experience. 
Rounding out Bravo team was Rebecca Chambers, 
who'd only been with the S.T.A.R.S. for three weeks, 
supposed to be some kind of medical genius. Chris 
had met her a couple of times and she seemed bright 

enough, but she was just a kid. 
It's not enough. Even with all of us, it may not be 
enough. 
He cracked open his soda but didn't drink any, 
wondering instead what the S.T.A.R.S. were going up 
against, Billy's pleading, desperate words echoing 
through his mind yet again. 
"They're going to kill me, Chris! They're going to 
kill everyone who knows! Meet me at Emmy's, now, I'll 
tell you everything. ..." 
Exhausted, Chris stared off into space, alone in the 
knowledge that the savage murders were only the tip 
of the proverbial iceberg. 
Barry stood by Chris's desk for a minute, trying to 
think of something else to say, but Chris didn't look 
like he was in the mood for conversation. Barry 
shrugged inwardly and headed back to where Joseph 
was going through files. Chris was a good guy, but he 
took things too hard sometimes; he'd get over it as 
soon as it was their turn to step in. 
Man, it was hot! Seemingly endless trickles of sweat 
rolled down his spine, gluing his T-shirt to his broad 
back. The air-conditioning was on the fritz as usual, 
and even with the door open, the tiny S.T.A.R.S. 
office was uncomfortably warm. 
"Any luck?" 
Joseph looked up at him from the pile of papers, a 
rueful smirk on his lean face. "You kidding? It's like 
somebody hid the damn thing on purpose." 
Barry sighed and scooped up a handful of files. 
"Maybe Jill found it. She was still here when I left last 
night, going through the witness reports for about the 
hundredth time. . ." 
"What are you two looking for, anyway?" Brad 
asked. 
Barry and Joseph both looked over at Brad, still 
sitting at the computer console, headset on. He'd be 
monitoring Bravo's progress throughout their fly-by 
of the forested district, but for now he looked bored as 
hell. 
Joseph answered him. "Ah, Barry claims that there 
are floor plans in here somewhere on the old Spencer 
estate, some architectural digest that came out when 
the house was built" He paused, then grinned at 
Brad. "Except that I'm thinkin' that ol' Barry's gone 
senile on us. They say memory is the first thing to go." 
Barry scowled good-naturedly. "Ol' Barry could 
easily kick your ass into next week, little man." 
Joseph looked at him mock-seriously. "Yeah, but 
would you remember it afterwards?" 
Barry chuckled, shaking his head. He was only 

thirty-eight, but had been with the Raccoon 
S.T.A.R.S. for fifteen years, making him the senior 
member. He endured numerous old age jokes, mostly 
from Joseph. 
Brad cocked an eyebrow. "The Spencer place? Why 
would it be in a magazine?" 
"You kids, gotta learn your history." Barry said. "It 
was designed by the one and only George Trevor, just 
before he disappeared. He was that hot-shit architect 
who did all those weird skyscrapers in D.C. - in fact, 
Trevor's disappearance may have been the reason that 
Spencer shut the mansion down. Rumor has it that 
Trevor went crazy during the construction and when 
it was finished, he got lost and wandered the halls 
until he starved to death." 
Brad scoffed, but suddenly looked uneasy. "That's 
bullshit. I never heard anything like that." 
Joseph winked at Barry. "No, it's true. Now his 
tortured ghost roams the estate each night, pale and 
emaciated, and I've heard tell that sometimes you can 
hear him, calling out, 'Brad Vickers . . . bring me 
Brad Vickers'" 
Brad flushed slightly. "Yeah, ha ha. You're a real 
comedian, Frost." 
Barry shook his head, smiling, but wondered again 
how Brad had ever made it to Alpha. He was un- 
doubtedly the best hacker working for S.T.A.R.S., 
and a decent enough pilot, but he wasn't so hot under 
pressure. Joseph had taken to calling him "Chicken- 
heart Vickers" when he wasn't around, and while the 
S.T.A.R.S. generally stuck up for one another, nobody 
disagreed with Joseph's assessment. 
"So is that why Spencer shut it down?" Brad 
addressed this to Barry, his cheeks still red. 
Barry shrugged. "I doubt it. It was supposed to be 
some kind of guest house for Umbrella's top execs. 
Trevor did disappear right about the time of comple- 
Tion, but Spencer was whacko, anyway. He decided 
to move Umbrella's headquarters to Europe, I forgot 
where exactly, and just boarded up the mansion. 
Probably a couple million bucks, straight into the 
crapper." 
Joseph sneered. "Right. Like Umbrella would 
suffer." 
True enough. Spencer may have been crazy, but 
he'd had enough money and business savvy to hire 
the right people. Umbrella was one of the biggest 
medical research and pharmaceutical companies on 
the planet. Even thirty years ago, the loss of a few 
million dollars probably hadn't hurt. 
"Anyway," Joseph went on, "the Umbrella people 

told Irons that they'd sent someone out to check the 
place over, and that it was secure, no break-ins." 
"So why look for blueprints?" Brad asked. 
It was Chris who answered, startling Barry. He'd 
walked back to join them, his youthful face fixed with 
a sudden intensity that almost bordered on obsessive. 
"Because it's the only place in the woods that hasn't 
been checked over by the police, and it's practically in 
the middle of the crime scenes. And because you can't 
always trust what people say." 
Brad frowned. "But if Umbrella sent somebody 
out. . ." 
Whatever Chris was going to say in response was 
cut short by Wesker's smooth voice, rising from the 
front of the room. 
"All right, people. Since it appears that Ms. Valen- 
tine isn't planning on joining us, why don't we get this 
started?" 
Barry walked to his desk, worried about Chris for 
the first time since this whole thing had started. He'd 
recruited the younger man for the S.T.A.R.S. a few 
years back thanks to a chance encounter in a local gun 
shop. Chris had proved to be an asset to the team, 
bright and thoughtful as well as a top-notch marks- 
man and able pilot. 
But now . . . 
Barry gazed fondly at the picture of Kathy and the 
girls that sat on his desk. Chris's obsession with the 
murders in Raccoon was understandable, particularly 
since his friend had disappeared. Nobody in town 
wanted to see another life lost. Barry had a family, 
and was as determined as anyone else on the team to 
stop the killers. But Chris's relentless suspicion had 
gone a little overboard. What had he meant by that, 
"You can't always trust what people say"? Either that 
Umbrella was lying or Chief Irons was. . . 
Ridiculous. Umbrella's branch chemical plant and 
administrative buildings on the outskirts of town 
supplied three-quarters of the jobs in Raccoon City; it 
would be counter-productive for them to lie. Besides, 
Umbrella's integrity was at least as solid as any other 
major corporation's-maybe some industrial espio- 
nage, but medical secret-swapping was a far cry from 
murder. And Chief Irons, though a fat, weasely blow- 
hard, wasn't the kind to get his hands any dirtier than 
they'd get accepting illegal campaign funds; the guy 
wanted to be mayor, for chrissake. 
Barry's gaze lingered on the picture of his family a 
moment longer before he turned his chair around to 
face Wesker's desk, and he suddenly realized that he 
wanted Chris to be wrong. Whatever was going on in 

Raccoon City, that kind of vicious brutality couldn't 
be planned. And that meant. . . 
Barry didn't know what that meant. He sighed, and 
waited for the meeting to begin. 

T

WO

 

JILL WAS DEEPLY RELIEVED TO HEAR THE 
sound of Wesker's voice as she jogged toward the 
open door of the S.T.A.R.S. office. She'd seen one of 
their helicopters taking off as she'd arrived, and been 
positive that they'd left without her. The S.T.A.R.S. 
were a fairly casual outfit in some respects. But there 
also wasn't any room for people who couldn't keep 
up-and she wanted very much to be in on this case 
from the beginning. 
"The RPD has already established a perimeter 
search, spanning sectors one, four, seven, and nine. 
It's the central zones we're concerned with, and Bravo 
will set down here ..." 
At least she wasn't too late; Wesker always ran 
meetings the same way-update speech, theory, then 
Q and A. Jill took a deep breath and stepped into the 
office. Wesker was pointing to a posted map at the 
front of the room, dotted with colored tags where 
the bodies had been found. He hardly faltered in his 
speech as she walked quickly to her desk, feeling 
suddenly like she was back in basic training and had 
shown up late for class. 
Chris Redfield threw her a half-smile as she sat 
down, and she nodded back at him before focusing on 
Wesker. She didn't know any of the Raccoon team 
that well, but Chris had made a real effort to make her 
feel welcome since she'd arrived. 
". . . after a fly-by of the other central areas. Once 
they report in, we'll have a better idea of where to 
focus our energies." 
"But what about the Spencer place?" Chris asked. 
"It's practically in the middle of the crime scenes. If 
we start there, we can conduct a more complete 
search." 
"And if Bravo's information points to that area, 
rest assured, we'll search there. For now, I don't see 
any reason to consider it a priority." 
Chris looked incredulous. "But we only have Um- 
brella's word that the estate is secure..." 
Wesker leaned against his desk, his strong features 
expressionless. "Chris, we all want to get to the 
bottom of this. But we have to work as a team, and the 
best approach here is to do a thorough search for 
those missing hikers before we start jumping to con- 

clusions. Bravo will take a look-see and we'll conduct 
this by the book." 
Chris frowned, but said nothing more. Jill resisted 
the urge to roll her eyes at Wesker's little speech. He 
was doing the right thing, technically, but had left out 
the part about it being politic to do as Chief Irons 
wanted. Irons had made it clear time and again 
throughout the killing spree that he was in charge of 
the investigation and was calling the shots. It 
wouldn't have bothered her so much except that 
Wesker presented himself as an independent thinker, 
a man who didn't play politics. She had joined the 
S.T.A.R.S. because she couldn't stand the bullshit 
red-tape that dominated so much of law enforcement, 
and Wesker's obvious deferral to the chief was irri- 
tating. 
Well, and don't forget that you stood a good chance 
of ending up in prison if you hadn't changed your 
occupation. . . 
"Jill. I see that you managed to find the time to 
come in. Illuminate us with your brilliant insight. 
What have you got for us?" 
Jill met Wesker's sharp gaze evenly, trying to seem 
as cool and composed as he was. "Nothing new, I'm 
afraid. The only obvious pattern is location. . ." 
She looked down at the notes she had on the stack 
of files in front of her, scanning them for reference. 
"Uh, the tissue samples from underneath both Becky 
McGee's and Chris Smith's fingernails were an exact 
match, we got that yesterday . . . and Tonya Lipton, 
the third victim, had definitely been hiking in the 
foothills, that'd be sector-seven-B. . . ." 
She looked back up at Wesker and made her pitch. 
"My theory at this point is that there's a possible 
ritualistic cult hiding in the mountains, four to eleven 
members strong, with guard dogs trained to attack 
intruders in their territory." 
"Extrapolate." Wesker folded his arms, waiting. 
At least no one had laughed. Jill plunged forward, 
warming to the material. "The cannibalism and dis- 
memberment suggest ritualistic behavior, as does the 
presence of decomposed flesh found on some of the 
victims - like the killers are carrying parts of previ- 
ous unknown victims to their attacks. We've got saliva 
and tissue samples from four separate human assail- 
ants, though eye-witness reports suggest up to ten or 
eleven people. And those killed by animals were all 
found or found to be attacked in the same vicinity, 
suggesting that they wandered into some kind of off- 
limits area. The saliva traces appear to be canine, 
though there's still some disagreement. . ." She 

trailed off, finished. 
Wesker's face betrayed nothing, but he nodded 
slowly. "Not bad, not bad at all. Disprove?" 
Jill sighed. She hated having to shoot her own 
theory down, but that was part of the job-and in all 
honesty, the part that most encouraged clear, rational 
thinking. The S.T.A.R.S. trained their people not to 
fixate on any single path to the truth. 
She glanced at her notes again. "It's highly unlikely 
that a cult that big would move around much, and the 
murders started too recently to be local; the RPD 
would've seen signs before now, some escalation to 
this kind of behavior. Also, the level of post-mortem 
violence indicates disorganized offenders, and they 
usually work solo." 
Joseph Frost, the Alpha vehicle specialist, piped up 
from the back of the room. "The animal attack part 
works, though, protecting their territory and all that." 
Wesker scooped up a pen and walked to the dry- 
erase board next to his desk, talking as he moved. "I 
agree." 
He wrote territoriality on the board and then turned 
back to face her. "Anything else?" 
Jill shook her head, but felt good that she'd contrib- 
uted something. She knew the cult aspect was reach- 
ing, but it had been all she could come up with. The 
police certainly hadn't come up with anything better. 
Wesker turned his attention to Brad Vickers, who 
suggested that it was a new strain of terrorism, and 
that demands would be made soon. Wesker put terror- 
ism on the board, but didn't seem enthusiastic about 
the idea. Neither did anyone else. Brad quickly went 
back to his headset, checking on Bravo team's status. 
Both Joseph and Barry passed on theorizing, and 
Chris's views on the killings were already well known, 
if vague; he believed that there was an organized 
assault going on, and that external influences were 
involved somehow. Wesker asked if he had anything 
new to add (stressing new, Jill noticed), and Chris 
shook his head, looking depressed. 
Wesker capped the black pen and sat on the edge of 
his desk, gazing thoughtfully at the blank expanse of 
board. "It's a start," he said. "I know you've all read 
the police and coroner reports, and listened to the 
eyewitness accounts." 
"Vickers here, over." From the back of the room, 
Brad spoke quietly into his headset, interrupting 
Wesker. The captain lowered his voice and continued. 
"Now at this point, we don't know what we're 
dealing with and I know that all of us have some . . . 
concerns with how the RPD has been dealing with the 

situation. But now that we're on the case, I..." 
"What?" 
At the sound of Brad's raised voice, Jill turned 
toward the back of the room along with everyone else. 
He was standing up, agitated, one hand pressed to the 
ear piece of his set. 
"Bravo team, report. Repeat, Bravo team, report!" 
Wesker stood up. "Vickers, put it on 'com!" 
Brad hit the switch on his console and the bright, 
crackling sound of static filled the room. Jill strained 
to hear a human voice amidst the fuzz, but for several 
tense seconds, there was nothing. 
Then. "... you copy? Malfunction, we're going to 
have to . . ." 
The rest was lost in a burst of static. It sounded like 
Enrico Marini, the Bravo team leader. Jill chewed at 
her lower lip and exchanged a worried glance with 
Chris. Enrico had seemed . . . frantic. They all lis- 
tened for another moment but there was nothing 
more than the sound of open air. 
"Position?" Wesker snapped. 
Brad's face was pale. "They're in the, uh, sector 
twenty-two, tail end of C ... except I've lost the 
signal. The transmitter is off-line." 
Jill felt stunned, saw the feeling reflected in the 
faces of the others. The helicopter's transmitter was 
designed to keep working no matter what; the only 
way it would shut down was if something big hap- 
pened - the entire system blanking out or being seri- 
ously damaged. 
Something like a crash. 
Chris felt his stomach knot as he recognized the 
coordinates. 
The Spencer estate. 
Marini had said something about a malfunction, it 
had to be a coincidence - but it didn't feel like one. 
The Bravos were in trouble, and practically on top of 
the old Umbrella mansion. 
All of this went through his head in a split-second, 
and then he was standing, ready to move. Whatever 
happened, the S.T.A.R.S. took care of their own. 
Wesker was already in action. He addressed the 
team even as he reached for his keys, heading for the 
gun safe. 
"Joseph, take over the board and keep trying to 
raise them. Vickers, warm up the 'copter and get 
clearance, I want us ready to fly in five." 
The captain unlocked the safe as Brad handed the 
headset to Joseph and hurried out of the room. The 
reinforced metal door swung open, revealing an arse- 
nal of rifles and handguns shelved above boxes of 

ammo. Wesker turned to the rest of them, his expres- 
sion as bland as ever but his voice brisk with au- 
thority. 
"Barry, Chris I want you to get the weapons into 
the 'copter, loaded and secured. Jill, get the vests and 
packs and meet us on the roof." He clipped a key off 
his ring and tossed it to her. 
"I'm going to put a call in to Irons, make sure he 
gets us some backup and EMTs down at the barri- 
cade," Wesker said, then blew out sharply. "Five 
minutes or less, folks. Let's move." 
Jill left for the locker room and Barry grabbed one 
of the empty duffel bags from the bottom of the gun 
safe, nodding at Chris. Chris scooped up a second bag 
and started loading boxes of shells, cartridges, and 
clips as Barry carefully handled the weapons, check- 
ing each one. Behind them, Joseph again tried hailing 
the Bravo team to no avail. 
Chris wondered again about the proximity of the 
Bravo team's last reported position to the Spencer 
estate. Was there a connection? And if so, how? 
Billy worked for Umbrella, they own the estate- 
"Chief? Wesker. We just lost contact with Bravo; 
I'm taking us in." 
Chris felt a sudden rush of adrenaline and worked 
faster, aware that every second counted - could mean 
the difference between life and death for his friends 
and teammates. A serious crash was unlikely, the 
Bravos would have been flying low and Forest was a 
decent pilot. . . but what about after they'd gone 
down? 
Wesker quickly relayed the information to Irons 
over the phone and then hung up, walking back to 
join them. 
"I'm going up to make sure our 'copter's outfitted. 
Joseph, give it another minute and then turn it over to 
the boys at the front desk. You can help these two 
carry the equipment up. I'll see you on top." 
Wesker nodded to them and hurried out, his foot- 
steps clattering loudly down the hall. 
"He's good," Barry said quietly, and Chris had to 
agree. It was reassuring to see that their new captain 
didn't rattle easily. Chris still wasn't sure how he felt 
about the man personally, but his respect for Wesker's 
abilities was growing by the minute. 
"Come in, Bravo, do you copy? Repeat. . ." 
Joseph patiently went on, his voice tight with 
strain, his pleas lost to the haze of white static that 
pulsed out into the room. 
 
Wesker strode down the deserted hall and through 

the shabbier of the two second-floor waiting rooms, 
nodding briskly at a pair of uniforms that stood 
talking by the soda machine. 
The door to the outside landing was chocked open, 
a faint, humid breeze cutting through the stickiness of 
the air inside. It was still daylight, but not for much 
longer. He hoped that wouldn't complicate matters, 
although he figured it probably would. . . . 
Wesker took a left and started down the winding 
corridor that led to the helipad, absently running 
through a mental checklist. 
. . . hailing open procedure, weapons, gear, re- 
port . . . 
He already knew that everything was in order, but 
went through it again anyway; it didn't pay to get 
sloppy, and assumptions were the first step down that 
path. He liked to think of himself as a man of 
precision, one who had taken all possibilities into 
account and decided on the best course of action after 
thoroughly weighing all factors. Control was what 
being a competent leader was all about. 
But to close this case... 
He shut the thought down before it could get any 
further. He knew what had to be done, and there was 
still plenty of time. All he needed to concentrate on 
now was getting the Bravos back, safe and sound. 
Wesker opened the door at the end of the hall and 
stepped out into the bright evening, the rising hum of 
the 'copter's engine and the smell of machine oil 
filling his senses. The small rooftop helipad was 
cooler than inside, partly draped by the shadow of an 
aging water tower, and empty except for the gunmetal 
gray Alpha helicopter. For the first time, he wondered 
what had gone wrong for Bravo; he'd had Joseph and 
the rookie check both birds out yesterday and they'd 
been fine, all systems go. 
He dismissed that train of thought as he walked 
toward the 'copter, his shadow falling long across the 
concrete. It didn't matter why, not anymore. What 
mattered was what came next. Expect the unexpected, 
that was the S.T.A.R.S. motto, although that basi- 
cally meant to prepare for anything. 
Expect nothing, that was Albert Wesker's motto. A 
little less catchy, maybe, but infinitely more useful. It 
virtually guaranteed that nothing would ever surprise 
him. 
He stepped up to the open pilot door and got a 
shaky thumbs-up from Vickers; the man looked posi- 
tively green, and Wesker briefly considered leaving 
him behind. Chris was licensed to fly, and Vickers had 
a reputation for choking under the gun; the last thing 

he needed was for one of his people to freeze up if 
there was trouble. Then he thought about the lost 
Bravos and decided against it. This was a rescue 
mission. The worst Vickers could do would be to 
throw up on himself if the 'copter had crashed badly, 
and Wesker could live with that. 
He opened the side door and crouched his way into 
the cabin, doing a quick inventory of the equipment 
that lined the walls. Emergency flares, ration kits . . . 
he popped the lid on the heavy, dented footlocker 
behind the benches and looked through the basic 
medical supplies, nodding to himself. They were as 
ready as they were going to be ... 
Wesker grinned suddenly, wondering what Brian 
Irons was doing right now. 
Shitting his pants, no doubt. Wesker chuckled as he 
stepped back out onto the sun-baked asphalt, getting a 
sudden clear mental image of Irons, his pudgy cheeks 
red with anger and crap dribbling down his leg. Irons 
liked to think he could control everything and every- 
one around him and lost his temper when he couldn't, 
and that made him an idiot. 
Unfortunately for all of them, he was an idiot with 
a little bit of power. Wesker had checked him out 
carefully before taking the position in Raccoon City, 
and knew a few things about the chief that didn't 
paint him in a particularly positive light. He had no 
intention of using that information, but if Irons 
attempted to screw things up one more time, Wesker 
had no qualms about letting that information get 
out... 
...or at least telling him that I have access to it; it'd 
certainly keep him out of the way. 
Barry Burton stepped out onto the concrete carry- 
ing more ammo cache, his giant biceps flexing as he 
shifted his hold on the heavy canvas bag and started 
for the 'copter. Chris and Joseph followed, Chris with 
the sidearms and Joseph lugging a satchel of RPGs, 
the compact grenade launcher slung over one 
shoulder. 
Wesker marveled at Burton's brute strength as the 
Alpha climbed in and casually set the bag down as 
though it didn't weigh over a hundred pounds. Barry 
was bright enough, but in the S.T.A.R.S., muscle was a 
definite asset. Everyone else in his squad was in good 
shape, but compared to Barry, they were pencil-necks. 
As the three of them stored the equipment, Wesker 
turned his attention back to the door, watching for 
Jill. He checked his watch and frowned. It had been 
just under five minutes since their last contact with 
Bravo, they'd made excellent time ... so where the 

hell was Valentine? He hadn't interacted with her 
much since she'd come to Raccoon, but her file was a 
rave review. She'd gotten high recommendations 
from everyone she'd worked with, praised by her last 
captain as highly intelligent and "unusually" calm in 
a crisis. She'd have to be, with her history. Her father 
was Dick Valentine, the best thief in the business a 
couple of decades back. He'd trained her to follow in 
his footsteps, and word had it that she had done quite 
well until Daddy had been incarcerated. . . . 
Prodigy or no, she could stand to buy a decent watch. 
He silently urged Jill to get her ass into gear and 
motioned for Vickers to start the blades turning. 
It was time to find out how bad things were out 
there. 

T

HREE

 

JILL TURNED TOWARD THE DOOR OF THE 
dim and silent S.T.A.R.S. locker room, her arms full 
with two bulging duffel bags. She set them down and 
quickly pulled her hair back, tucking it into a well- 
worn black beret. It was really too hot, but it was her 
lucky hat. She glanced at her watch before hefting the 
bags, pleased to note that it had only taken her three 
minutes to load up. 
She'd gone through all of the Alpha lockers, grab- 
bing utility belts, fingerless gloves, Kevlar vests and 
shoulder packs, noting that the lockers reflected their 
user's personalities: Barry's had been covered with 
snapshots of his family and a pin-up from a gun 
magazine, a rare .45 Luger, shining against red velvet. 
Chris had pictures of his Air Force buddies up and the 
shelves were a boyish mess-crumpled T-shirts, loose 
papers, even a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo with a broken 
string. Brad Vickers had a stack of self-help books and 
Joseph, a Three Stooges calendar. Only Wesker's had 
been devoid of personal effects. Somehow, it didn't 
surprise her. The captain struck her as too tightly 
wound to place much value on sentiment. 
Her own locker held a number of used paperback 
true crime novels, a toothbrush, floss, breath mints, 
and three hats. On the door was a small mirror and an 
old, frayed photo of her and her father, taken when 
she was a child and they'd gone to the beach one 
summer. As she'd quickly thrown the Alpha gear 
together, she decided that she'd redecorate when she 
had free time; anyone looking through her locker 
would think she was some kind of dental freak. 
Jill crouched a bit and fumbled at the latch to the 
door, balancing the awkward bags on one raised knee. 

She'd just grasped it when someone coughed loudly 
behind her. 
Startled, Jill dropped the bags and spun, looking for 
the cougher as her mind reflexively assessed the 
situation. The door had been locked. The small room 
held three banks of lockers and had been quiet and 
dark when she'd come in. There was another door in 
the back of the room, but no one had come through it 
since she'd entered- 
-which means that someone was already here 
when I came in, in the shadows behind the last bank. A 
cop grabbing a nap? 
Unlikely. The department's lunch room had a cou- 
ple of bunks in the back, a lot more comfortable than 
a narrow bench over cold concrete. 
Then maybe it's someone enjoying a little "leisure" 
time with a magazine, her brain snarled, does it 
matter? You're on the clock here, get moving! 
Right. Jill scooped up the bags and turned to leave. 
"Miss Valentine, isn't it?" A shadow separated 
itself from the back of the room and stepped forward, 
a tall man with a low, musical voice. Early forties, a 
thin frame, dark hair and deep set eyes. He was 
actually wearing a trench coat, and an expensive one 
at that. 
Jill readied herself to move quickly if the need 
arose. She didn't recognize him. 
"That's right," she said warily. 
The man stepped toward her, a smile flickering 
across his face. "I have something for you," he said 
softly. 
Jill narrowed her eyes and shifted automatically 
into a defensive position, balancing her weight on the 
balls of her feet. "Hold it, asshole - I don't know who 
the hell you think you are or what you think I want, 
but you're in a police station . . ." 
She trailed off as he shook his head, grinning 
broadly, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth. "You 
mistake my intentions, Miss Valentine. Excuse my 
manners, please. My name is Trent, and I'm ... a 
friend to the S.T.A.R.S." 
Jill studied his posture and position and eased her 
own stance slightly, watching his eyes for even a 
flicker of movement. She didn't feel threatened by 
him, exactly. . . . 
. . . but how did he know my name? 
"What do you want?" 
Trent grinned wider. "Ah, straight to the point. But 
of course, you're on a rather tight schedule..." 
He slowly reached into a pocket of his coat and 
pulled out what looked like a cell phone. "Though it's 

not what I want that's important. It's what I think you 
should have." 
Jill glanced quickly at the item he held, frowning. 
"That?" 
"Yes. I've assembled a few documents that you 
should find interesting; compelling, in fact." As he 
spoke, he held out the device. 
She reached for it carefully, realizing as she did that 
it was a mini-disk reader, a very complicated and 
costly micro computer. Trent was well-financed, who- 
ever he was. 
Jill tucked the reader into her hip pack, suddenly 
more than a little curious. "Who do you work for?" 
He shook his head. "That's not important, not at 
this juncture. Although I will say that there are a lot of 
very important people watching Raccoon City right 
now." 
"Oh? And are these people 'friends' of the 
S.T.A.R.S., too, Mr. Trent?" 
Trent laughed, a soft, deep chuckle. "So many 
questions, so little time. Read the files. And if I were 
you, I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone; 
it could have rather serious consequences." 
He walked toward the door in the back of the room, 
turning back to her as he reached for the knob. Trent's 
lined, weathered features suddenly lost all trace of 
humor, his gaze serious and intense. 
"One more thing, Miss Valentine, and this is criti- 
cal, make no mistake: not everyone can be trusted, 
and not everyone is who they appear to be - even the 
people you think you know. If you want to stay alive, 
you'll do well to remember it." 
Trent opened the door and just like that, he was 
gone. 
Jill stared after him, her mind going a million 
directions at once. She felt like she was in some 
melodramatic old spy movie and had just met the 
mysterious stranger. It was laughable, and yet- 
- and yet he just handed you several thousands of 
dollars worth of equipment with a straight face and 
told you to watch your back; you think he's kidding? 
She didn't know what to think, and she didn't have 
time to think it; the Alpha team was probably assem- 
bled, waiting, and wondering where the hell she was. 
Jill shouldered the heavy bags and hurried out the 
door. 
 
They'd gotten the weapons loaded and secured and 
Wesker was getting impatient. Although his eyes were 
hidden by dark aviator sunglasses, Chris could see it 
in the captain's stance and in the way he kept his head 

cocked toward the building. The helicopter was 
prepped and ready, the blades whipping warm, humid 
air through the tight compartment. With the door 
open, the sound of the engine drowned out any 
attempt at conversation. There was nothing to do but 
wait. 
Come on, Jill, don't slow us up here. . . . 
Even as Chris thought it, Jill emerged from the 
building and jogged toward them with the Alpha gear, 
an apologetic look on her face. Wesker jumped down 
to help her, taking one of the stuffed bags as she 
climbed aboard. 
Wesker followed, closing the double hatches behind 
them. Instantly, the roar of the turbine engine was 
muted to a dull thrum. 
"Problems, Jill?" Wesker didn't sound angry, but 
there was an edge to his voice that suggested he wasn't 
all that happy, either. 
Jill shook her head. "One of the lockers was stuck. I 
had a hell of a time getting the key to work." 
The captain stared at her for a moment, as if 
deciding whether or not to give her a hard time, then 
shrugged. "I'll call maintenance when we get back. 
Go ahead and distribute the gear." 
He picked up a headset and put it on, moving up to 
sit next to Brad as Jill started passing out the vests. 
The helicopter lifted slowly, the RPD building falling 
away as Brad positioned them to head northwest. 
Chris crouched down next to Jill after donning his 
vest, helping her sort through the gloves and belts as 
they sped over the city toward the Arklay Mountains. 
The busy urban streets below quickly gave way to the 
suburbs, wide streets and quiet houses set amidst 
squares of browning grass and picket fences. An 
evening haze had settled over the sprawling but iso- 
lated community, fussing the edges of the picturesque 
view and giving it an unreal, dream-like quality. 
Minutes passed in silence as the Alphas prepared 
themselves and belted in, each team member preoccu- 
pied with his or her own thoughts. 
With any luck, the Bravo team's helicopter had 
suffered only a minor mechanical failure. Forest 
would've set it down in one of the scraggly open fields 
that dotted the forest and was probably up to his 
elbows in grease by now, cursing at the engine as they 
waited for Alpha to show. Without the bird in work- 
ing order, Marini wouldn't start the proposed search. 
The alternative . . . 
Chris grimaced, not wanting to consider any alter- 
natives. He'd once seen the aftermath of a serious 
'copter crash, back in the Air Force. Pilot error had 

led to the fall of a Huey carrying eleven men and 
women to a training mission. By the time the rescuers 
had arrived, there'd been nothing but charred, smok- 
ing bones amidst the fiery debris, the sweet, sticky 
smell of gasoline-roasted flesh heavy in the blackened 
air. Even the ground had been burning, and that was 
the image that had haunted his dreams for months 
afterwards; the earth on fire, the chemical flames 
devouring the very soil beneath his feet. . . . 
There was a slight dip in their altitude as Brad 
adjusted the rotor pitch, jolting him out of the un- 
pleasant memory. The ragged outskirts of Raccoon 
Forest slipped by below, the orange markers of the 
police blockade standing out against the thick muted 
green of the trees. Twilight was finally setting in, the 
forest growing heavy with shadow. 
"ETA . . . three minutes." Brad called back, and 
Chris looked around the cabin, noting the silent, grim 
expressions of his teammates. Joseph had tied a 
bandana over his head and was intently relacing his 
boots. Barry was gently rubbing a soft cloth over his 
beloved Colt Python, staring out the hatch window. 
He turned his head to look at Jill and was surprised to 
find her staring back at him thoughtfully. She was 
sitting on the same bench as him and she smiled 
briefly, almost nervously as he caught her gaze. 
Abruptly she unhooked her belt and moved to sit next 
to him. He caught a faint scent of her skin, a clean, 
soapy smell. 
"Chris . . . what you've been saying, about external 
factors in these cases ..." 
Her voice was pitched so low that he had to lean in 
to hear her over the throbbing of the engine. She 
glanced quickly around at the others, as if to make 
sure that no one was listening, then looked into his 
eyes, her own carefully guarded. 
"I think you might be on the right track," she said 
softly, "and I'm starting to think that it might not be 
such a good idea to talk about it." 
Chris's throat suddenly felt dry. "Did something 
happen?" 
Jill shook her head, her finely chiseled features 
giving away nothing. "No. I've just been thinking that 
maybe you should watch what you say. Maybe not 
everyone listening is on the right side of this..." 
Chris frowned, not sure what she was trying to tell 
him. "The only people I've talked to are on the job." 
Her gaze didn't falter, and he realized suddenly 
what she was implying. 
Jesus, and I thought I was paranoid! 
"Jill, I know these people, and even if I didn't, the 

S.T.A.R.S. have psycho profiles on every member, 
history checks, personal references - there's no way it 
could happen." 
She sighed. "Look, forget I said anything. I just . . . 
just watch yourself, that's all." 
"All right, kids, look lively! We're coming up on 
sector twenty-two, they could be anywhere." 
At Wesker's interruption, Jill gave him a final sharp 
glance and then moved to one of the windows. Chris 
followed, Joseph and Barry taking the search up on 
the other side of the cabin. 
Looking out the small window, he scanned the 
deepening dusk on automatic, thinking about what 
Jill had said. He supposed he should be grateful that 
he wasn't the only one who suspected some kind of a 
cover up, but why hadn't she said anything before? 
And to warn him against the S.T.A.R.S. . . . 
She knows something. 
She must, it was the only explanation that made 
any sense. He decided that after they picked up Bravo, 
he'd talk to her again, try to convince her that going to 
Wesker would be their best bet. With both of them 
pushing, the captain would have to listen. 
He stared out at the seemingly endless sea of trees 
as the helicopter skimmed lower, forcing his full 
attention to the search. The Spencer estate had to be 
close, though he couldn't see it in the fading light. 
Thoughts of Billy and Umbrella and now Jill's strange 
warning circled through his exhaustion, trying to 
break his focus, but he refused to give in. He was still 
worried about the Bravos - though as the trees swept 
by, he was becoming more and more convinced that 
they weren't in any real trouble. It was probably 
nothing worse than a crossed wire, Forest had just 
shut it down to make repairs. 
Then he saw it less than a mile away, even as Jill 
pointed and spoke, and his concern turned to cold 
dread. 
"Look, Chris!" 
An oily plume of black smoke boiled up through the 
last remnants of daylight, staining the sky like a 
promise of death. 
Oh, no! 
Barry clenched his jaw, staring at the stream of 
smoke that rose up from the trees, feeling sick. 
"Captain, two o'clock sharp!" Chris called, and 
then they were turning, heading for the dark smudge 
that could only mean a crash. 
Wesker moved back into the cabin, still wearing his 
shades. He stepped to the window and spoke quietly, 
his voice subdued. "Let's not assume the worst. 

There's a possibility that a fire broke out after they 
landed, or that they started the fire on purpose, as a 
signal." 
Barry wished they could believe him, but even 
Wesker had to know better. With the 'copter shut 
down, a fire starting on its own was unlikely and if 
the Bravos wanted to signal, they would've used 
flares. 
Besides which, wood doesn't make that kind of 
smoke. . . . 
"But whatever it is, we won't know till we get 
there. Now if I could have your full attention, please." 
Barry turned away from the window, saw the others 
do the same. Chris, Jill, and Joseph all wore the same 
look, as he imagined he did: shock. S.T.A.R.S. some- 
times got hurt in the line of duty, it was part of the 
job, but accidents like this . . . 
Wesker's only visible sign of distress was the set of 
his mouth, a thin, grim line against his tanned skin. 
"Listen up. We've got people down in a possibly 
hostile environment. I want all of you armed, and I 
want an organized approach, a standard fan as soon 
as we set down. Barry, you'll take point." 
Barry nodded, pulling himself together. Wesker was 
right; now was not the time to get emotional. 
"Brad's going to set us down as close to the site as 
he can get, what looks like a small clearing about fifty 
meters south of their last coordinates. He'll stay with 
the 'copter and keep it warm in case of trouble. Any 
questions?" 
Nobody spoke, and Wesker nodded briskly. "Good. 
Barry, load us up. We can leave the rest of the gear on 
board and come back for it." 
The captain stepped to the front to talk to Brad, 
while Jill, Chris, and Joseph turned to Barry. As 
weapons specialist, he checked the firearms in and out 
to each S.T.A.R.S. team member and kept them in 
prime condition. 
Barry turned to the cabinet next to the outer hatch 
and unhooked the latch, exposing six Beretta 9mm 
handguns on a metal rack, cleaned and sighted only 
yesterday. Each weapon held fifteen rounds, semi- 
jacketed hollow points. It was a good gun, though 
Barry preferred his Python, a lot bigger punch with 
.357 rounds. . . . 
He quickly distributed the weapons, passing out 
three loaded clips with each. 
"I hope we don't need these," Joseph said, slapping 
in a clip, and Barry nodded agreement. Just because 
he paid his dues to the NRA didn't mean he was some 
trigger-happy dumbass, looking to kill; he just liked 

guns. 
Wesker joined them again and the five of them 
stood at the hatch, waiting for Brad to bring them in. 
As they neared the plume of smoke, the helicopter's 
whirling blades pushed it down and out, creating a 
black fog that blended into the heavy shadows of the 
trees. Any chance of spotting the downed vehicle 
from the air was lost to the smoke and dusk. 
Brad swung them around and settled the bird into a 
scrappy patch of tall grass, snapping wildly from the 
forced wind. Even as the rails wobbled to the ground, 
Barry had his hand on the latch, ready to move out. 
A warm hand fell on his shoulder. Barry turned and 
saw Chris looking at him intently. 
"We're right behind you," Chris said, and Barry 
nodded. He wasn't worried, not with the Alphas 
backing him up. All he was concerned with was the 
Bravo team's situation. Rico Marini was a good 
friend of his. Marini's wife had baby-sat for the girls 
more times than Barry could count, and was friends 
with Kathy. The thought of him dead, to a stupid 
mechanical screw-up . . . 
Hang on, buddy, we're comin'. 
One hand on the butt of his Colt, Barry pulled the 
handle and stepped out into the humid, whipping 
twilight of Raccoon Forest, ready for anything. 

F

OUR

 

THEY SPREAD OUT AND STARTED NORTH, 
Wesker and Chris behind and to Barry's left, Jill and 
Joseph on his right. Directly in front of them was a 
sparse stand of trees, and as the Alpha's 'copter blade 
revved down, Jill could smell burning fuel and see 
wisps of smoke curling through the foliage. 
They moved quickly through the wooded area, 
visibility dropping off sharply beneath the needled 
branches. The warm scents of pine and earth were 
overshadowed by the burning smell, the acrid odor 
growing stronger with each step. From the dim light 
filtering toward them, Jill saw that there was another 
clearing ahead, high with brittle grasses. 
"I see it, dead ahead!" 
Jill felt her heart speed up at Barry's shout, and 
then they were all running, hurrying to catch up to 
their point man. 
She emerged from the copse of trees, Joseph next to 
her. Barry was already at the downed 'copter, Chris 
and Wesker right behind. Smoke was still rising from 
the silent wreck, but it was thinning. If there had been 
a fire, it had died out. 

She and Joseph reached the others and stopped, 
staring, no one speaking as they surveyed the scene. 
The long, wide body of the 'copter was intact, not a 
single scratch visible. The port landing rail looked 
bent, but besides that and the dying haze of smoke 
from the rotor, there seemed to be nothing wrong 
with it. The hatches stood open, the beam from 
Wesker's penlight showing them an undamaged cabin. 
From what she could see, most of the Bravo's gear was 
still on board. 
So where are they? 
It didn't make any sense. It hadn't been fifteen 
minutes since their last transmission; if anyone had 
been injured, they would have stayed. And if they'd 
decided to leave, why had they left their equipment 
behind? 
Wesker handed the light to Joseph and nodded 
toward the cockpit. "Check it out. The rest of you, 
spread out, look for clues-tracks, shell casings, signs 
of struggle-you find anything, let me know. And stay 
alert." 
Jill stood a moment longer, staring at the smoking 
'copter and wondering what could have happened. 
Enrico had said something about a malfunction; so 
okay, the Bravos had set down. What had happened 
next? What would have made them abandon their 
best chance of being found, leaving behind emergency 
kits, weaponry - Jill saw a couple of bullet-proof 
vests crumpled next to the hatch and shook her head, 
adding it to the growing list of seemingly irrational 
actions. 
She turned to join the search as Joseph stepped out 
of the cockpit, looking as confused as she felt. She 
waited to hear his report as he handed the light back 
to Wesker, shrugging nervously. 
"I don't know what happened. The bent rail sug- 
gests a forced landing, but except for the electrical 
system, everything looks fine." 
Wesker sighed, then raised his voice so the others 
could hear. "Circle out, people, three meters apart, 
widen as we go!" 
Jill moved over to stand between Chris and Barry, 
both men already scanning the ground at their feet as 
they slowly moved east and northeast of the helicop- 
ter. Wesker stepped into the cabin, probing the dark- 
ness with his penlight. Joseph headed west. 
Dry weeds crackled underfoot as they widened 
their circle, the only sound in the still, warm air 
except for the distant hum of the Alpha helicopter 
engine. Jill used her boots to search through the thick 
ground cover, brushing the tall grasses aside with each 

step. In another few moments, it'd be too dark to see 
anything; they needed to break out the flashlights, 
Bravo had left theirs behind. . . . 
Jill stopped suddenly, listening. The sighing, crack- 
ling steps of the others, the far away drone of their 
'copter and nothing else. Not a chirp, a chitter, nothing. 
They were in the woods, in the middle of summer; 
where were the animals, the insects? The forest was 
unnaturally still, the only sounds human. For the first 
time since they'd set down, Jill was afraid. 
She was about to call out to the others when Joseph 
shouted from somewhere behind them, his voice high 
and cracking. 
"Hey! Over here!" 
Jill turned and started jogging back, saw Chris and 
Barry do the same. Wesker was still by the helicopter 
and had drawn his weapon at Joseph's cry, pointing it 
up as he broke into a run. 
In the murky light, Jill could just make out Joseph's 
shadowy form, crouched down in the high grass near 
some trees a hundred feet past the 'copter. Instinc- 
tively, she pulled her own sidearm and double-timed, 
suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of encroaching 
doom. 
Joseph stood up, holding something, and let out a 
strangled scream before dropping it, his eyes wide 
with horror. 
For a split-second, Jill's mind couldn't accept what 
it had seen in Joseph's grasp. 
A S.T.A.R.S. handgun, a Beretta. 
Jill ran faster, catching up to Wesker. 
And a disembodied human hand curled around it, 
hacked off at the wrist. 
There was a deep, guttural snarl from behind Jo- 
seph, from the darkness of the trees. An animal, 
growling joined by another rasping, throaty shriek 
and suddenly dark, powerful shapes erupted 
from the woods, lunging at Joseph and taking him 
down. 
"Joseph!" 
Jill's scream ringing in his ears, Chris drew his 
weapon and stopped in his tracks, trying to get a clear 
shot at the raging beasts that were attacking Joseph. 
Wesker's penlight sent a thin beam dancing over the 
writhing creatures, illuminating a nightmare. 
Joseph's body was all but hidden by the three 
animals that tore at him, ripping at him with gnash- 
ing, dripping jaws. They were the size and shape of 
dogs, as big as German shepherds maybe, except that 
they seemed to have no fur, no skin. Wet, red sinew 
and muscle flashed beneath Wesker's wavering light, 

the dog-creatures shrieking and snapping in a frenzy 
of bloodlust. 
Joseph cried out, a burbling, liquid sound as he 
flailed weakly at the savage attackers, blood pouring 
from multiple wounds. It was the scream of a dying 
man. There was no time to waste; Chris targeted and 
opened fire. 
Three rounds smacked wetly into one of the dogs, a 
fourth shot going high. There was a single, high- 
pitched yelp and the beast went down, its sides 
heaving. The other two animals continued their as- 
sault, indifferent to the thunderous shots. Even as 
Chris watched in horror, one of the slavering hell 
hounds lunged forward and ripped out Joseph's 
throat, exposing bloody gristle and the glistening 
slickness of bone. 
The S.T.A.R.S. opened up, sending a rain of explo- 
sive fire at Joseph's killers. Red spatters burst into the 
air, the dog-things still trying to get at the spasming 
corpse while bullets riddled their strange flesh. With a 
final series of harsh, barking mewls, they fell-and 
didn't rise again. 
"Hold your fire!" 
Chris took his finger off the trigger but continued to 
point the handgun at the fallen creatures, ready to 
blow apart the first one that so much as twitched. Two 
of them were still breathing, growling softly through 
panting gasps. The third sprawled lifelessly next to 
Joseph's mutilated body. 
They should be dead, should"ve stayed down at the 
first shots! What are they? 
Wesker took a single step toward the slaughter in 
front of them when all around, deep, echoing howls filled the 
warm night air, shrill voices of predatorial fury com- 
ing at the S.T.A.R.S. from all directions. 
"Back to the 'copter, now!" Wesker shouted. 
Chris ran, Barry and Jill in front of him and Wesker 
bringing up the rear. The four of them sprinted 
through dark trees, unseen branches slapping at them 
as the howls grew louder, more insistent. 
Wesker turned and fired blindly into the woods as 
they stumbled toward the waiting helicopter, its 
blades already spinning. Chris felt relief sweep 
through him; Brad must have heard the shots. They 
still had a chance. . . 
Chris could hear the creatures behind them now, 
the sharp rustling of lean, muscular bodies tearing 
through the trees. He could also see Brad's pale, wide- 
eyed face through the glass front of the 'copter, the 
reflected lights of the control panel casting a greenish 
glow across his panicked features. He was shouting 

something, but the roar of the engine drowned out 
everything now, the blast of wind churning the field 
into a rippling sea. 
Another fifty feet, almost there. 
Suddenly, the helicopter jerked into the air, acceler- 
ating wildly. Chris caught a final glimpse of Brad's 
face and could see the blind terror there, the unthink- 
ing panic that had gripped him as he clawed at the 
controls. 
"No! Don't go!" Chris screamed, but the wobbling 
rails were already out of reach, the 'copter pitching 
forward and away from them through the thundering 
darkness. 
They were going to die. 
Damn you, Vickers! 
Wesker turned and fired again, and was rewarded 
with a squeal of pain from one of their pursuers. 
There were at least four more close behind, gaining on 
them rapidly. 
"Keep going!" he shouted, trying to get his bearings 
as they stumbled on, the piercing shrieks of the 
mutant dogs urging them faster. The sound of the 
helicopter was dying away, the cowardly Vickers 
taking their escape with him. 
Wesker fired again, the shot going wide, and saw 
another shadowy form join the hunt. The dogs were 
brutally fast. They didn't stand a chance, unless . . . 
The mansion! 
"Veer right, one o'clock!" Wesker yelled, hoping 
that his sense of direction was still intact. They 
couldn't outrun the creatures, but maybe they could 
keep them at bay long enough to reach cover. 
He spun and fired the last round in his clip. 
"Empty!" 
Ejecting the spent magazine, he fumbled for anoth- 
er one tucked into his belt as both Barry and Chris 
took up the defense, firing past him and into the 
closing pack. Wesker slapped in the fresh clip as they 
reached the edge of the overgrown clearing and 
plunged into another dark stand of trees. 
They stumbled and dodged through the woods, 
tripping on uneven ground as the killer dogs came on. 
Lungs aching for air, Wesker imagined that he could 
smell the fetid, rotting meat stench of the beasts as 
they narrowed the distance and he somehow found 
the capacity to run faster. 
We should be there by now, gotta be dose... 
Chris saw it first through the thinning shadows of 
trees, the looming monstrosity back-lit by an early 
moon. "There! Run for that house!" 
It looked abandoned from the outside, the weath- 

ered wood and stone of the giant mansion crumbling 
and dark. The full size of the structure was cloaked by 
the shadowy, overgrown hedges that surrounded it, 
isolating it from the forest. A massive outset front 
porch presented double doors, their only option for 
escape. 
Wesker actually heard the snap of powerful jaws 
behind him and fired at the sound, intuitively squeez- 
ing the trigger as he ran for the front of the mansion. 
A gurgling yelp and the creature fell away, the howls 
of its siblings louder than ever, raised to a fever pitch 
by the thrill of the chase. 
Jill reached the doors first, slamming into the heavy 
wood with one shoulder as she snatched at the han- 
dles. Amazingly, they crashed open; brightness spilled 
out across the stone steps to the porch, lighting their 
path. She turned and started firing, providing cover as 
the three gasping men ran for the opening in the 
darkness. 
They piled into the mansion, Jill diving in last and 
Barry throwing his considerable bulk against the 
door, wedging it closed against the snarls of the 
creatures. He collapsed against it, face red and sweat- 
ing, as Chris found the entry's steel deadbolt and slid 
it home. 
They'd made it. Outside, the dogs howled and 
scrabbled uselessly at the heavy doors. 
Wesker took a deep breath of the cool, quiet air that 
filled the well-lit room and exhaled sharply. As he'd 
already known, the Spencer house wasn't abandoned. 
And now that they were here, all his careful planning 
was for nothing. 
Wesker silently cursed Brad Vickers again and 
wondered if they were any better off inside than 
out. . . 

F

IVE

 

JILL TOOK IN THEIR NEW SURROUNDINGS AS 
she caught her breath, feeling like she was a character 
in a nightmare that had just taken a turn into grand 
fantasy. Wild, howling monsters, Joseph's sudden 
death, a terrifying run through the dark woods-and 
now this. 
Deserted, huh? 
It was a palace, pure and simple, what her father 
would have called a perfect score. The room they had 
escaped into was the epitome of lavish. It was huge, 
easily bigger than Jill's entire house, tiled in gray- 
flecked marble and dominated by a wide, carpeted 
staircase that led to a second-floor balcony. Arched 

marble pillars lined the ornate hall, supporting the 
dark, heavy wood balustrade of the upper floor. 
Fluted wall sconces cast funnels of light across walls 
of cream, trimmed in oak and offset by the deep burnt 
ocher of the carpeting. In short, it was magnificent. 
"What is this?" Barry muttered. No one answered 
him. 
Jill took a deep breath and decided immediately 
that she didn't like it. There was a sense of... wrong- 
ness to the vast room, an atmosphere of vague oppres- 
sion. It felt haunted somehow, though by who or 
what, she couldn't say. 
Beats the hell out of getting eaten by mutant dogs, 
though, gotta give it that much. And on the trail of that 
thought, God, poor Joseph! There hadn't been time to 
mourn him, and there wasn't time now-but he 
would be missed. 
She walked toward the stairs clutching her hand- 
gun, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet that 
led from the front door. There was an antique 
typewriter on a small table to the right of the steps, a 
blank sheet of paper spooled into the works. A 
strange bit of a decorum. The expansive hall was 
otherwise empty. 
She turned back toward the others, wondering what 
their take on all this was. Barry and Chris both looked 
uncertain, their faces flushed and sweaty as they 
surveyed the room. Wesker was crouched by the front 
door, examining one of the latches. 
He stood up, his dark shades still in place, seeming 
as detached as ever. "The wood around the lock is 
splintered. Somebody broke this door open before we 
got here." 
Chris looked hopeful. "Maybe the Bravos?" 
Wesker nodded. "That's what I'm thinking. Help 
should be on the way, assuming our 'friend' Mr. 
Vickers bothers to call it in." 
His voice dripped sarcasm, and Jill felt her own 
anger kindling. Brad had screwed up big time, had 
almost cost them their lives. There was no excuse for 
what he'd done. 
Wesker continued, walking across the room toward 
one of the two doors on the west wall. He rattled the 
handle, but it didn't open. "It's not safe to go back 
out. Until the cavalry shows up, we might as well take 
a look around. It's obvious that somebody's been 
keeping this place up, though why and for how 
long . . ." 
He trailed off, walking back toward the group. 
"How are we set for ammo?" 
Jill ejected the clip from her Beretta and counted: 

three rounds left, plus the two loaded magazines on 
her belt. Thirty-three shots. Chris had twenty-two left, 
Wesker, seventeen. Barry had two racked speed load- 
ers for his Colt, plus an extra handful of loose 
cartridges tucked into a hip pouch, nineteen rounds in 
all. 
Jill thought about all they'd left back on the heli- 
copter and felt another rush of anger toward Brad. 
Boxes of ammunition, flashlights, walkie-talkies, 
Shotguns - not to mention medical supplies. That 
Beretta that Joseph had found out in the field, the 
pale, blood-spattered fingers still wrapped around 
it - a S.T.A.R.S. team member dead or dying, and 
thanks to Brad, they didn't even have a band-aid to 
offer. 
Thump! 
A sound of something heavy sliding to the floor, 
somewhere close by. In unison, they turned toward 
the single door on the east wall. Jill was suddenly 
reminded of every horror movie she'd ever seen; a 
strange house, a strange noise . . . she shivered, and 
decided that she was most definitely going to kick 
Brad's narrow ass when they got out of here. 
"Chris, check it out and report back ASAP," 
Wesker said. "We'll wait here in case the RPD comes 
knocking. You run into any trouble, fire your weapon 
and we'll find you." 
Chris nodded and started toward the door, his 
boots clacking loudly against the marble floor. 
Jill felt that sense of foreboding wash over her 
again. "Chris?" 
His hand on the knob, he turned back, and she 
realized that there was nothing she could tell him that 
made any sense. Everything was happening so fast, 
there was so much wrong with this situation that she 
didn't know where to start. 
And he's a trained professional, and so are you. Start 
acting like it. 
"Take care," she said finally. It wasn't what she 
wanted to say, but it'd have to be enough. 
Chris gave her a lopsided grin, then raised his 
Beretta and stepped through the doorway. Jill heard 
the ticking of a clock and then he was gone, closing 
the door behind him. 
Barry caught her gaze and smiled at her, a look that 
told her not to worry, but Jill couldn't shake the 
sudden certainty that Chris wouldn't be coming back. 
* * * 
Chris swept the room, taking in the stately elegance 
of the environment as he realized he was alone; 
whoever had made the noise, they weren't here. 

The solemn ticking of a grandfather clock filled the 
cool air, echoing off of shining black and white tiles. 
He was in a dining hall, the kind he'd only ever seen 
in movies about rich people. Like the front room, this 
one had an incredibly high ceiling and a second floor 
balcony, but it was also decorated with expensive- 
looking art and had an inset fireplace at the far end, 
complete with a coat of arms and crossed swords hung 
over the mantle. There didn't seem to be any way to 
get to the second floor, but there was a closed door to 
the right of the fireplace. 
Chris lowered his weapon and started for the door, 
still awed by the wealth of the "abandoned" mansion 
that the S.T.A.R.S. had stumbled into. The dining 
room had polished red wood trim and expensive 
looking artwork on the beige stucco walls, surround- 
ing a long wooden table that ran the length of the 
room. The table had to seat at least twenty, though it 
was only set for a handful of people. Judging from the 
dust on the lacy place mats, nothing had been served 
for weeks. 
Except no one is supposed to have been here for 
thirty years, let alone hosted a formal dinner! Spencer 
had this place closed down before anyone ever stayed 
here. 
Chris shook his head. Obviously someone had 
reopened it a long time ago ... so how was it that 
everyone in Raccoon City believed the Spencer estate 
to be boarded up, a crumbling ruin out in the woods? 
More importantly, why had Umbrella lied to Irons 
about its condition? 
Murders, disappearances, Umbrella, Jill. ... It was 
frustrating; he felt like he had some of the answers, 
but wasn't sure what questions to ask. 
He reached the door and turned the knob slowly, 
listening for any sound of movement on the other 
side. He couldn't hear anything over the ticking of the 
old clock; it was set against the wall and each move- 
ment of the second hand reverberated hollowly, am- 
plified by the cavernous room. 
The door opened into one side of a narrow corri- 
dor, dimly lit by antique light fixtures. Chris quickly 
checked both directions. To the right was maybe ten 
meters of hardwood hall, a couple of doors across 
from him and a door at the end of the corridor. To the 
left, the hallway took a sharp turn away from where he 
stood, widening out. He saw the edge of a patterned 
brown run on the floor there. 
He wrinkled his nose, frowning. There was a vague 
odor in the air, a faint scent of something unpleas- 
ant, something familiar. He stood in the doorway 

another moment, trying to place the smell. 
One summer when he was a kid, the chain had 
come off his bike when he'd been out on a ride with 
some friends. He'd ended up in a ditch about six 
inches away from a choice bit of roadkill, the dried- 
up, pulpy remains of what once might have been a 
woodchuck. Time and the summer heat had dissi- 
pated the worst of the stink, though what had re- 
mained had been bad enough. Much to the 
amusement of his buddies, he'd vomited his lunch all 
over the carcass, taken a deep breath, then puked 
again. He still remembered the sun-baked scent of 
drying rot, like thickly soured milk and bile; the same 
smell that lingered in the corridor now like a bad 
dream. 
Fummp. 
A soft, shuffling noise from behind the first door to 
his right, like a padded fist sliding across a wall. There 
was someone on the other side. 
Chris edged into the hallway and moved toward the 
door, careful not to turn his back to the unsecured 
area. As he got closer, the gentle sounds of movement 
stopped, and he could see that the door wasn't closed 
all the way. 
No time like the present. 
With an easy tap the door swung inward, into a dim 
hall with green flecked wallpaper. A broad-shouldered 
man was standing not twenty feet away, half-hidden 
in shadow, his back to Chris. He turned around 
slowly, the careful shuffling of someone drunk or 
injured, and the smell that Chris had noticed before 
came off of the man in thick, noxious waves. His 
clothes were tattered and stained, the back of his head 
patchy with sparse, scraggly hair. 
Gotta be sick, dying maybe. 
Whatever was wrong with him, Chris didn't like it; 
his instincts were screaming at him to do something. 
He stepped into the corridor and trained his Beretta 
on the man's torso. "Hold it, don't move!" 
The man completed his turn and started toward 
Chris, shambling forward into the light. His, its, 
face was deathly pale, except for the blood smeared 
around its rotting lips. Flaps of dried skin hung from 
its sunken cheeks, and the dark wells of the creature's 
eye sockets glittered with hunger as it reached out 
with skeletal hands. 
Chris fired, three shots that smacked into the crea- 
ture's upper chest in a fine spray of crimson. With a 
gasping moan, it crumpled to the floor, dead. 
Chris staggered back, his thoughts racing in time 
with his hammering heart. He hit the door with one 

shoulder, was vaguely aware that it latched closed 
behind him as he stared at the fallen, stinking heap. 
-dead, that thing's the walking goddamn dead! 
The cannibal attacks in Raccoon, all of them near 
the forest. He'd seen enough late-night movies to 
know what he was looking at, but he still couldn't 
believe it. 
Zombies. 
No, no way, that was fiction, but maybe some 
kind of a disease, mimicking the symptoms. He had 
to tell the others. He turned and grabbed at the 
handle, but the heavy door wouldn't move, it must 
have locked itself when he'd stumbled. 
Behind him, a wet movement. Chris spun, eyes 
wide as the twitching creature clawed at the wooden 
floor, pulling itself toward him in an eager, single- 
minded silence. Chris realized that it was drooling, 
and the sight of the sticky pink rivulets pooling to the 
wood floor finally spurred him to action. 
He fired again, two shots into the thing's decaying, 
upturned face. Dark holes opened up in its knobby 
skull, sending tiny rivers of fluid and fleshy tissue 
through its lower jaw. With a heavy sigh, the rotting 
thing settled to the floor in a spreading red lake. 
Chris didn't want to make any bets on it staying 
down. He gave one more futile yank on the door and 
then stepped carefully past the body, moving down 
the corridor. He rattled the handle of a door on his 
left, but it was locked. There was a tiny etching in the 
key plate, what looked like a sword; he filed that bit of 
information into his confused, whirling thoughts and 
continued on, gripping the Beretta tightly. 
There was an offshoot to his right with a single 
door, but he ignored it, wanting to find a way to circle 
back to the front hall. The others must have heard the 
shots, but he had to assume that there were more 
creatures running around here like the one he'd 
killed. The rest of the team might already have their 
hands full. 
There was a door at the end of the hall on the left, 
where the corridor turned. Chris hurried toward it, 
the putrid scent of the creature - the zombie, call it what it is - 
- making him want to gag. As he neared the door, 
he realized that the smell was actually getting worse, 
intensifying with each step. 
He heard the soft, hungry moan as his hand 
touched the knob, even as it registered that he only 
had two bullets left in his clip. In the shadows to his 
right, movement. 
Gotta reload, get somewhere safe. 
Chris jerked the door open and stepped into the 

arms of the shambling creature that waited on the 
other side, its peeling fingers grasping at him as it 
lunged for his throat. 
 
Three shots. Seconds later, two more, the sounds 
distant but distinct in the palatial lobby. 
Chris! 
"Jill, why don't you..." Wesker started, but Barry 
didn't let him finish. 
"I'm going, too," he said, already starting for the 
door on the east wall. Chris wouldn't waste shots like 
that unless he had to; he needed help. 
Wesker relented quickly, nodding. "Go. I'll wait 
here." 
Barry opened the door, Jill right behind. They 
walked into a huge dining room, not as wide as the 
front hall but at least as long. There was another door 
at the opposite end, past a grandfather clock that 
ticked loudly in the frigid, dusty air. 
Barry jogged toward it, revolver in hand, feeling 
tense and worried. Christ, what a balls-up this opera- 
tion was! S.T.A.R.S. teams were often sent into risky 
situations where the circumstances were unusual, but 
this was the first time since he'd been a rookie that 
Barry felt like things had gone totally out of control. 
Joseph was dead, Chickenheart Vickers had left them 
to be eaten by dogs from hell, and now Chris was in 
trouble. Wesker shouldn't have sent him in alone. 
Jill reached the door first, touching the handle with 
slim fingers and looking to him. Barry nodded and 
she pushed it open, going in low and left. 
Barry took the other side, both of them sweeping an 
empty corridor. 
"Chris?" Jill called out quietly, but there was no 
answer. Barry scowled, sniffing the air; something 
smelled like rotting fruit. 
"I'll check the doors," Barry said. Jill nodded and 
edged to the left, alert and focused. 
Barry moved toward the first door, feeling good 
that Jill was at his back. He'd thought she was kind of 
bitchy when she'd first transferred, but she was prov- 
ing to be a bright and capable soldier, a welcome 
addition to the Alphas. 
Jill let out a high-pitched gasp of surprise and Barry 
spun, the scent of decay suddenly thick in the narrow 
hall. 
Jill was backing away from an opening at the end of 
the corridor, her weapon trained on something Barry 
couldn't see. 
"Stop!" Her voice was high and shaky, her expres- 
sion horrified and she fired, once, twice, still backing toward 

Barry, her breathing fast and shallow. 
"Get clear, left!" He raised the Colt as she moved 
out of the way, as a tall man stepped into view. The 
figure's arms were stretched out like a sleepwalker's, 
the hands frail and grasping. 
Barry saw the creature's face then and didn't hesi- 
tate. He fired, a .357 round peeling the top of its ashen 
skull away in an explosive burst, blood coursing down 
its strange, terrible features and staining the cataracts 
of its pale, rolling eyes. 
It pitched back, sprawling face-up at Jill's feet. 
Barry hurried to her side, stunned. 
"What..." he started, then saw what was on the 
carpet in front of them, laying in the small sitting area 
that marked the end of the corridor. 
For a moment, Barry thought it was Chris, until 
he saw the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo insignia on the vest, and 
felt a different kind of horror set in as he struggled to 
recognize the features. The Bravo had been decapi- 
tated, the head laying a foot away from the corpse, the 
face completely covered in gore. 
Oh jeez, it's Ken. 
Kenneth Sullivan, one of the best field scouts Barry 
had ever known and a hell of a nice guy. There was a 
gaping, ragged wound in his chest, chunks of partly 
eaten tissue and gut strewn around the bloody hole. 
His left hand was missing, and there was no weapon 
nearby; it must have been his gun that Joseph had 
found out in the woods.  
Barry looked away, sickened. Ken had been a quiet, 
decent sort, did a lot of work in chemistry. He'd had a 
teen-aged son who lived with his ex in California. 
Barry thought of his own girls at home, Moira and 
Poly, and felt a surge of helpless fear for them. He 
wasn't afraid of death, but the thought of them 
growing up without a father. 
Jill dropped into a crouch next to his ravaged body 
and rifled quickly through the belt pack. She shot an 
apologetic look at Barry, but he gave her a slight nod. 
They needed the ammo; Ken certainly didn't. 
She came up with two clips for a nine-millimeter 
and tucked them into her hip pocket. Barry turned 
and stared down at Ken's murderer in disgust and 
wonder. 
He had no doubt that he was looking at one of the 
cannibal killers that had been preying upon Raccoon 
City. It had a crusty scum of red around its mouth 
and gore-encrusted nails, as well as a ragged shirt that 
was stiff with dried blood. What was weird was how 
dead it looked. 
Barry had once done a covert hostage rescue in 

Ecuador, where a group of farmers had been held for 
weeks by a band of insane guerrilla rebels. Several of 
the hostages had been killed early in the siege, and 
after the S.T.A.R.S. managed to capture the rebels, 
Barry had gone with one of the survivors to record the 
deaths. The four victims had been shot, their bodies 
dumped behind the small wooden shack that the 
rebels had taken over. After three weeks in the South 
American sun, the skin on their faces had shriveled, 
the cracking, lined flesh pulling away from sinew and 
bone. He still remembered those faces clearly, and 
saw them again now as he looked down at the fallen 
creature. It wore the face of death. 
Besides which, it smells like a slaughterhouse on a 
hot day. Somebody forgot to tell this guy that dead 
people don't walk around. 
He could see the same sickened confusion on Jill's 
face, the same questions in her eyes, but for now, 
there weren't any answers; they had to find Chris and 
regroup. 
Together, they moved back down the corridor and 
checked all three doors, rattling handles and pushing 
at the heavy wood frames. All were securely locked. 
But Chris had to have gone through one of them, 
there's nowhere else he could have gone. 
It didn't make sense, and short of breaking the 
doors down, there was nothing they could do about it. 
"We should report this to Wesker," Jill said, and 
Barry nodded agreement. If they'd stumbled into the 
hiding place of the killers, they were going to need a 
plan of attack. 
They ran back through the dining room, the stale 
air a relief after the corridor's reek of blood and 
decay. They reached the door back to the main hall 
and hurried through, Barry wondering what the cap- 
tain would make of all this. It was downright. 
Barry stopped short, searching the elegant, empty 
hall and feeling like the butt of some practical joke 
that simply wasn't funny. 
Wesker was gone. 

S

IX

 

"WESKER!" BARRY SHOUTED, HIS DEEP VOICE 
echoing through the chilly room. "Captain Wesker!" 
He jogged toward a row of arches at the back of the 
hall, calling to Jill over his shoulder as he ran. "Don't 
leave the room!" 
Jill walked to the stairs, feeling almost dizzy. First 
Chris, now the captain. They hadn't been gone five 
minutes and he'd said he was going to stay put. Why 

would he have left? She looked around for signs of a 
struggle, a spent cartridge, a spot of blood - there was 
nothing to indicate what might have happened. 
Barry appeared on the other side of the giant 
staircase, shaking his head and walking slowly to join 
her. Jill bit her lower lip, frowning. 
"You think Wesker ran into one of those-things?" 
she asked. 
Barry sighed. "I don't think the RPD showed and 
snuck him out. Though if he did run into trouble, we 
would have heard the shots." 
"Not necessarily. He could have been ambushed, 
dragged away ..." 
They stood silently for a moment, thinking. Jill was 
still a bit shaken from the face-to-face with the 
walking corpse, but thought she'd accepted the facts 
pretty well; the woods bordering Raccoon City had 
become infested with zombies. 
After a lifetime of reading trashy novels about serial 
killers, is a cannibal zombie so hard to swallow? 
Somehow it wasn't, and neither were the murderous 
dogs or the secretly kept estate. There was no question 
that it all existed. The question was, why? Did the 
mansion have anything to do with the murders, or 
had the zombies simply overrun it like they'd overrun 
Raccoon Forest? 
And was that creature the last thing Becky and Pris 
saw? 
She rejected that thought almost violently; thinking 
about the girls now would be a mistake. 
"So do we go looking or do we wait?" Jill said 
finally. 
"Go looking. Ken made it here. The rest of the 
Bravos could be somewhere in this house. It'd be easy 
enough to get lost. Chris . . ." 
He half-smiled, though Jill could see the worry in 
his eyes. "Chris and Wesker got-side-tracked, but 
we'll find them. It'd take more than a couple of 
walking stiffs to cause either of them any grief." 
He reached into a pocket in his vest and pulled out 
something wrapped in a handkerchief, handing it to 
her. She felt the thin metal objects beneath the light 
fabric and recognized them instantly. 
"It's the set you gave me to practice with last 
month," he said. "I figure you'll have better luck with 
them." 
Jill nodded, tucking the lockpicks into her hip 
pouch. Barry had taken an interest in her former 
"career" and she'd given him a few pieces from her 
old set, several picks and torsion bars. They could 
come in handy. The small bundle settled on top of 

something hard and smooth- 
-Trent's computer! In all the excitement, she'd 
totally forgotten about her strange encounter in the 
locker room. She opened her mouth to tell Barry, then 
shut it, remembering Trent's cryptic warning. 
"I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone." 
Screw that. She'd almost risked it anyway with 
Chris. 
And where is Chris now? Who's to say that Trent's 
"dire consequences" haven't already occurred? 
Jill realized what she was thinking and had to fight 
off an urge to laugh at herself. What had happened 
with Trent probably wasn't even relevant to their 
predicament, and whether or not she could trust 
Barry, she knew she didn't trust Trent - still, she 
decided not to say anything about it, at least until she 
had a chance to see what the computer held. 
"I think we should split up," Barry continued.  
"I know it's dangerous, but we need to cover a lot of 
ground. We find anybody, we meet back here, use this 
room as base." 
Rubbing at his beard, he fixed her with a serious 
gaze. "You up for this, Jill? We could search to- 
gether . . ." 
"No, you're right," she said. "I can take the west 
wing." Unlike cops, S.T.A.R.S. seldom partnered. 
They were trained to watch their own backs in dan- 
gerous situations. 
Barry nodded. "Okay. I'll go back and see if I can 
persuade one of those doors to open. Keep an eye out 
for a back exit, conserve ammo . . . and be careful." 
"You, too." 
Barry grinned, holding up his Colt Python. "I'll be 
fine." 
There was nothing left to say. Jill headed straight 
for the set of doors on the west wall that Wesker 
hadn't tried earlier. Behind her, Barry hurried back to 
the dining room. She heard the door open and close, 
leaving her alone. 
Here goes nothing. 
The painted blue doors opened smoothly, revealing 
a small, shadowy room as cool and silent as the main 
hall, all in shades of blue. Muted track lighting 
illuminated framed paintings on dusky walls, and in 
the center of the room was a large statue of a woman 
holding an urn on one shoulder. 
Jill closed the door behind her and let her eyes 
adjust to the gloom, noting the two doors opposite the 
one she'd come through. The one on the left was 
open, though a small chest was pushed in front of it, 
blocking access. It was unlikely that Wesker had gone 

that way. 
She walked to the one on the right and tried the 
knob. Locked. Sighing, she reached into her pack for 
the picks and then hesitated, feeling the smooth 
weight of the mini-disk reader. 
Let's see what Mr. Trent thinks is so important.  
She slipped it out and studied it a moment, then 
tapped at a switch. A screen the size of a baseball card 
flickered to life, and with a few more taps, small lines 
of type scrolled across the monitor. She scanned the 
material, recognizing names and dates from local 
newspapers. Trent had apparently compiled every arti- 
cle he could find about the murders and disappear- 
ances in Raccoon, plus the pieces on the S.T.A.R.S. 
Nothing new here. . . Jill skipped along, wonder- 
ing what the point was. After the articles was a list of 
names. 
WILLIAM BIRKIN, STEVE KELLER, MICHAEL DEES, 
JOHN HOWE, MARTIN CRAGKHORN, HENRY SARTON, 
ELLEN SMITH, BILL RABBITSON 
She frowned. None of the names were familiar, 
Except - wasn't Bill Rabbitson Chris's friend, the one 
who had worked for Umbrella? She couldn't be sure, 
she'd have to ask Chris. . . . 
. . . assuming we find him. This was a waste of time; 
she needed to start looking for the other S.T.A.R.S. 
She pressed the forwarding key to get to the end of the 
data and a picture appeared, tiny lines set into pat- 
terns. There were squares and long rectangles, cross- 
hatched with smaller marks that connected the empty 
boxes. Beneath it was a single line, a message as 
enigmatic as she could have expected from Mr. Trent: 
KNIGHT KEYS; TIGER EYES; FOUR CRESTS (GATE OF 
NEW LIFE); EAST-EAGLE/WEST-WOLF. 
Gee, how illuminating. That just clears up every- 
thing, doesn't it? The picture was some kind of map, 
she decided. It looked like a floor plan. The biggest 
area was at the center, a slightly smaller one extending 
off to the left. 
Jill suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. She stared 
down at the small screen, wondering how Trent had 
known. 
It was the mansion's first floor. She tapped the 
forward button again and saw what could only be the 
second floor, the shapes corresponding to the first 
map. There was nothing after the second map, but it 
was enough. 
As far as she was concerned, there was no longer 
any question that the Spencer estate was the source of 
the terror in Raccoon City, which meant that the 
answers were here, waiting to be uncovered. 

 
The zombie groaned as Chris fired point-blank into 
its gut, twice. The shots were muffled by its rancid 
flesh and it fell against him, expelling a rush of foul, 
stinking air across his face. 
Chris pushed it away, the back of his throat locking. 
His hands and the barrel of his weapon were dripping 
with sticky fluids. The creature collapsed to the floor, 
its limbs spasming. 
Chris backed away, wiping the Beretta against his 
vest as he took deep breaths, trying desperately not to 
vomit. The zombie out in the hall had been a desic- 
cated mess, shriveled and dry; this one was-fresh, if 
that was the right word. Festering, necrotic, wet. . . 
He swallowed, hard, and the urge to throw up 
slowly passed. He didn't have a particularly weak 
stomach, but that smell, God! 
Keep it together, could be more of them. . . . 
The hall he'd entered was all dark wood and dim 
light. For the moment, there was no sound except the 
pulse of blood in his ears. He looked down at the 
body, wondering exactly what it was, what it had 
been. He had felt its hot, fetid breath against his face. 
It wasn't a reanimated corpse, no matter what it 
looked like. 
He decided it didn't matter. For all intents and 
purposes, it was a zombie. It had tried to bite him, 
and creatures like it had already chowed down on 
some of Raccoon's population. He needed to find his 
way back to the others and they had to get out, get 
help. They didn't have the firepower to handle the 
situation alone. 
He ejected the empty clip from the gummy weapon 
and quickly reloaded, his chest tightening with stress; 
fifteen rounds left. He had a Bowie knife, but the 
thought of going up against a zombie with only a knife 
wasn't all that appealing. 
There was a plain-looking door to his left. Chris 
pulled at the knob, but it was locked. He squinted at 
the key plate, and wasn't all that surprised to see an 
etching of what looked like armor. Sword, armor- 
there was a definite theme developing. 
He moved down the wide hall, listening for any 
sound and taking frequent deep breaths through his 
nose. The goo on his vest and hands made it hard to 
tell if there were any more of them around, the smell 
was all over him, but it could be his only chance to 
avoid another close encounter. 
The hall turned to the left and he took the corner 
fast, sweeping the Beretta across the wide wooden 
expanse. There was a support pillar partially blocking 

his view but he could see the back of a man just past 
it, the slumped shoulders and stained clothes of one 
of the creatures. 
Chris quickly edged to the right, trying to get a clear 
shot. The zombie was maybe forty feet away, and he 
didn't want to waste his last rounds. At the sound of 
his boots against the hard wood floor, it turned, 
shuffling slowly. So slowly that Chris hesitated, 
watching the way it moved. 
This one seemed to have been dipped in a thin layer 
of slime, dull light reflecting off of its glistening skin 
as it stumbled almost blindly toward Chris. It slowly 
raised its arms, its pale, hairless skull wobbling on its 
emaciated neck. Silently, it shuffled forward. 
Chris took a sliding step back to his left and the 
zombie changed direction, veering toward him ea- 
gerly, closing the distance between them at a slow 
walk. 
Just like in the movies; dangerous but dumb. And 
easy to outrun. . . . 
He had to save ammo in case he got cornered. 
There were stairs at the end of the hall, and Chris took 
a deep breath, readying himself. He stepped back, 
giving himself enough room to maneuver- 
-and heard a gasping moan behind him, a fresh 
wave of rancid stink assaulting his senses. He spun, 
the realization hitting him even before he saw it. 
The festering zombie was only a few feet away, 
reaching for him, bits of its putrid gut spilling out 
across its shattered abdomen. He hadn't killed it, 
hadn't waited long enough to make sure, and his 
stupidity was about to cost him. 
Ah, shit! 
Chris sprinted away and down the corridor, dodg- 
ing both of them and cursing himself. He passed the 
thick support beam, almost to the stairs- 
-and stopped cold, seeing what waited at the top. 
He caught only a glimpse of the ragged creature 
standing at the head of the stairs and spun away, 
raising his weapon to face the attackers that shambled 
toward him hungrily. 
From the shadows beneath the steps came a heavy, 
gurgling sigh and the scuffing of wood; another one. 
He was trapped, there was no way he could kill them 
all - door! 
It faced the side of the stairs, the dark wood 
blending so well with the shadows that he almost 
hadn't seen it. Chris ran for it, grabbing at the handle, 
praying that it would open as around him, the crea- 
tures closed in. 
If it was locked, he was dead. 

Rebecca Chambers had never been more afraid, not 
once in her eighteen years. For what seemed like an 
eternity, she'd listened to the soft scrape of rotting 
flesh brushing against the door and tried desperately 
to think of a plan, her dread building with each 
passing minute. There was no lock on the door, and 
she'd lost her handgun on the run for the house. The 
small storage room, though well stocked with chemi- 
cals and stacks of papers, had offered nothing to use 
as a defense except a half-empty can of insect repel- 
lent. 
It was the can she gripped now, standing behind the 
door of the tiny room. If or when the monsters finally 
figured out how to use a doorknob, she planned on 
spraying it in their eyes and then making a run for it. 
Maybe they'll be laughing so hard I'll have a chance 
to slip past; bug spray, great weapon... 
She'd heard what could have been shots somewhere 
close by, but they weren't repeated. Her hope that it 
was one of the team faded as the seconds ticked past, 
and she was starting to give serious consideration to 
the concept that she was the only one left when the 
door burst open and a gasping figure hurdled inside. 
Rebecca didn't hesitate. She leapt forward and 
pressed the button, releasing a cloud of chemical mist 
into its face, tensing herself to run past it. 
"Gah!" It yelled, and fell back against the door, 
slamming it shut. It covered its eyes, spluttering. 
It wasn't a monster; she'd just maced one of the 
Alphas. 
"Oh, no!" Rebecca was already reaching into her 
field medical kit, her immense relief at seeing another 
of the S.T.A.R.S. battling with monumental embar- 
rassment. 
She fumbled out a clean cloth and a tiny squeeze 
bottle of water, stepping toward him. "Keep your eyes 
closed, don't rub at them." 
The Alpha dropped his hands, face red, and she 
finally recognized him. It was Chris Redfield, only the 
most attractive guy in the S.T.A.R.S., not to mention 
her superior. She felt herself blush, and was suddenly 
glad that he couldn't see her. 
Nice going, Rebecca. Way to make a good impres- 
sion on your first operation. Lose your gun, get lost, 
blind a teammate . . . 
She led him over to the small cot in the corner of 
the room and sat him down, letting her training take 
over. 
"Lean your head back. This is going to sting a little, 
but it's just water, okay?" She dabbed at his eyes with 
the damp cloth, relieved that she hadn't sprayed him 

with anything worse. 
"What was that stuff?" he said, blinking rapidly. 
Tears and water streamed down his face, but there 
didn't seem to be any damage. 
"Uh, bug repellent. The label's been ripped off but 
the active ingredient is probably permephrin, it's an 
irritant but the effect shouldn't last long. I lost my 
gun, and when you came in I thought you were one of 
those things, though if they haven't figured out how to 
use a doorknob by now, they probably won't." 
She realized she was babbling and shut up, finishing 
the crude irrigation and stepping back. Chris wiped at 
his face and peered up at her with bloodshot eyes. 
"Rebecca . . . Chambers, right?" 
She nodded miserably. "Yeah. Look, I'm really 
Sorry." 
"Don't worry about it," he said, and smiled. "Not a 
bad weapon, actually." 
He stood up and looked around the small room, 
frowning. There wasn't much to see: an open trunk 
full of papers, a shelf lined with bottles of mostly 
unlabeled chemicals, a cot, and a desk. Rebecca had 
been through it all in her search for something to use 
against the creatures. 
"What about the rest of your team?" he asked. 
Rebecca shook her head. "I don't know. Something 
went wrong with the helicopter and we had to set 
down. We were attacked by animals, some kind of 
dogs, and Enrico told us to run for cover." 
She shrugged, suddenly feeling like she was about 
twelve years old. "I got-turned around in the woods 
and ended up at the front door of this place. I think 
one of the others broke it down, it was open . . ." 
She trailed off, looking away from his intense gaze. 
The rest was probably obvious: she had no weapon, 
she'd gotten lost, she'd ended up here. All in all, a 
pretty poor showing. 
"Hey," he said softly. "There's nothing else you 
could have done. Enrico said run, you ran, you 
followed orders. Those creatures out there, the zom- 
bies . . . they're all over the place. I got lost, too, and 
the rest of the Alphas could be anywhere. Trust me, 
just the fact that you made it this far." 
Outside, one of the monsters let out a low, plaintive 
wail and Chris stopped talking, his expression grim. 
Rebecca shuddered. "So what do we do now?" 
"We look for the others and try to find a way out." 
He sighed, looking down at his weapon. "Except you 
don't have a gun and I'm almost out of ammo. . ." 
Rebecca brightened and reached into her hip pack. 
She pulled out two full magazines and handed them 

over, pleased that she had something to offer him. 
"Oh! And I found this on the desk," she said, and 
produced a silver key with a sword on it. She didn't 
know what it unlocked, but thought it might be useful. 
Chris stared at it thoughtfully, then slipped it into a 
pocket. He walked to the open trunk and looked down 
at the stacks of papers. He rifled through them, 
frowning. 
"Your background's in biochemistry, right? Have 
you looked through these?" 
Rebecca joined him, shaking her head. "Barely. I've 
been kinda busy watching the door." 
He handed her one of the papers and she scanned it 
quickly. It was a list of neurotransmitters and level 
indicators. 
"Brain chemistry," she said, "but these numbers 
are all screwed up. The serotonin and norepinephrine 
are too low . . . but look here, the dopamine is off the 
chart, we're talking big-time schizo." 
She noticed the incredulous look on his face and 
smiled a little. Being an eighteen-year-old college 
grad, she got a lot of that. The S.T.A.R.S. had 
recruited her right after graduation, promising her a 
whole team of researchers and a lab of her own to 
study molecular biology, her real passion-provided, 
of course, that she went through basic training and got 
some field experience. No one else had shown much 
interest in hiring a whiz kid. . . . 
There was a soft thump at the door and her smile 
faded. She was getting experience, alright. 
Chris fished the sword key out of his pocket and 
looked at her seriously. "I passed a door with a sword 
engraved over the keyhole. I'm going to go check it 
out, see if it leads back to the main hall. I want you to 
stay here and go through those files. Maybe there's 
something we can use." 
Her uncertainty must have showed in her face. He 
smiled gently, his voice low and soothing. "I've got 
plenty of ammo, thanks to you, and I won't be gone 
long." 
She nodded, making a conscious effort to relax. She 
was scared, but letting him see it wasn't going to help 
matters. He was probably scared, too. 
He walked to the door, still talking. "The RPD 
should be here any time, so if I don't come back right 
away, just wait here." 
He raised the weapon, putting his other hand on the 
knob. "Get ready. As soon as I'm out, move the trunk 
in front of the door. I'll give a yell when I get back." 
Rebecca nodded again, and with a final quick smile, 
Chris opened the door and looked both ways before 

moving out into the hall. She closed the door and 
leaned against it, listening. After long seconds of 
silence, she heard the rattle of gunfire not far away, 
five or six shots-then nothing. 
After a few minutes, she moved the trunk to block 
part of the door, edging it in front of the hinges so she 
could push it out of the way easily. She knelt in front 
of it, trying to clear her thoughts as she started 
looking through the papers, trying not to feel as young 
and unsure as she actually felt. 
Sighing, she pulled out a handful of papers and 
started to read. 

S

EVEN 

THE LOCK WAS A PIECE OF CAKE, THREE FLAT 
tumblers in a single row; Jill could have opened it with 
a couple of paper clips. According to the map, the door 
would open into a long hall. . .. 
Sure enough. She took another long look at the 
pocket computer's screen and then slipped it into her 
pack, thinking. It looked like there was a back way 
out, through several halls and past a series of rooms. 
She could look for Wesker and the others along the 
way, and maybe secure an escape route at the same 
time. She stepped into the narrow corridor, the fully 
loaded Beretta in hand. 
It was a study in weirdness. The hall wasn't all that 
spectacular, the carpet runner and the wallpaper done 
in basic tans and browns, the wide windows showing 
only the darkness outside. The display chests that 
lined the inner wall, though . . . 
There were three of them, each topped by a small 
lamp, and each prominently displaying a wide array 
of bleached human bones on open shelves, inter- 
spersed with small items of obscurity. Jill started 
down the hall, stopping briefly at each bizarre specta- 
cle. Skulls, arm and leg bones, hands and feet. There 
were at least three complete skeletons, and amidst the 
pale and pitted bones were feathers, clay beads, 
gnarled strips of leather. 
Jill picked up one of the leather strips and then put 
it down quickly, wiping her fingers on her pants. She 
couldn't be sure, but it felt like she imagined tanned, 
cured human skin would feel, stiff and kind of 
greasy. 
Crash! 
The window behind her exploded inward, a lithe, 
sinewy form lunging into the hall, growling and 
snapping. It was one of the mutant, killing hounds, its 
eyes as red as its dripping hide. It charged her, its 

teeth as bright and dangerous as the jagged glitter of 
glass still falling from the shattered frame. 
Backed between two of the chests, Jill fired. The 
angle was wrong, the bullet splintering the wood at 
her feet as the dog jumped at her, growling deep in its 
throat. 
It hit her in the thighs, slamming her painfully 
against the wall, gnashing to get its jaws at her flesh. 
The smell of rotting meat washed over her and she 
fired again and again, barely aware that she was 
moaning in fear and disgust, a sound as guttural and 
primal as the furious, dying shrieks that came from 
the canine abomination. 
The fifth bullet fired directly into its barrel chest 
knocked it away. With a final, almost puppyish yelp it 
crumpled to the floor, blood gushing into the tan 
carpet. 
Jill kept her weapon trained on the still form, 
gulping air in huge, shuddery breaths. Its limbs 
twitched suddenly, its massive claws beating a brief 
tattoo across the wet, red floor before it lay still again. 
Jill relaxed, recognizing the movement as a death 
spasm, the body releasing life. She'd have bruises, but 
the dog was dead. 
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and crouched 
down next to it, taking in the strange, exposed muscu- 
lature and huge jaws. It had been too dark and hectic 
on the run to the house to get a good look at the things 
that had killed Joseph, but in the bright light of the 
corridor, her initial impression wasn't changed; it 
looked like a skinned dog. 
She stood up and backed away, warily eyeing the 
row of windows in the hall. Obviously they offered no 
protection from the hazards outside. The corridor 
took a sharp left and she hurried on, past more of the 
macabre displays that decorated the inner wall. 
The door at the end of the long hall was unlocked. It 
opened into another hall, not as well lit as the first but 
at least not as creepy, either. The muted, gray-green 
wallpaper sported paintings of generic scenery and 
gentle landscapes, not a bone or fetish in sight. 
The first door on the right was locked, a carving of 
armor on the key plate. Jill remembered the list on the 
computer, something about knight keys, but decided 
not to bother with it for now. According to Trent's 
map, there was a room on the other side that didn't 
lead anywhere. Besides, if Wesker had come this way, 
she didn't imagine that he was locking doors behind 
him. 
Right, just like it was unlikely that Chris would 
disappear; don't assume anything about this place. 

The next door she tried opened into a small bath- 
room with an antique feel, complete with a ceiling fan 
and an old-fashioned, four-footed tub. There was no 
sign of recent use. 
She stood for a moment in the stale, tiny room, 
breathing deeply, feeling the aftermath of the adrena- 
line rush she'd had in the corridor. Growing up, she'd 
learned how to enjoy the thrill of danger, of sneaking 
in and out of strange places with only a handful of 
tools and her own wits to keep her safe. Since joining 
the S.T.A.R.S., that youthful excitement had faded 
away, lost to the realities of back-up and handguns, 
but here it was again, unexpected and not unwelcome. 
She couldn't lie to herself about the simple joy that 
often followed facing death and walking away. She 
felt . . . good. Alive. 
Let's not have a party just yet, her mind whispered 
sarcastically. Or have you forgotten that S.T.A.R.S. are 
being eaten in this hellhole? 
Jill stepped back into the silent hallway and edged 
around another corner, wondering if Barry had found 
Chris and if either of them had run across any of the 
Bravos. She felt like she had an advantage with the 
maps, and decided that once she'd checked out the 
possible escape, she'd go back to the main hall and 
wait for Barry. With the information on Trent's 
computer, they could search more quickly and thor- 
oughly. 
The corridor ended with two doors facing each 
other. The one on the right was the one she wanted. 
She tried the handle and was rewarded with the soft 
snick of the bolt retracting. 
She stepped into a dark hall and saw one of the 
zombies, a hulking, pale shadow standing next to a 
door, maybe ten feet away. As she raised her weapon, 
the creature started toward her, emitting soft hunger 
sounds from its decaying lips. One of its arms hung 
limply at its side, and although Jill could see jagged 
bone protruding from the shoulder, it still clenched 
and unclenched its rotting fist eagerly as it reached 
out with its other arm. 
The head, aim for the head. 
The shots were incredibly loud in the chilly gloom, 
the first blowing off its left ear, the second and third 
punching holes into its skull just above its pallid 
brow. Dark fluids streamed down the peeling face and 
it fell to its knees, its flat, lifeless eyes rolling back into 
its head. 
There was shuffling movement in the shadows at 
the back of the hall to the right, exactly where she 
meant to go. Jill trained the gun on the darkness and 

waited for it to move closer, her entire body wired 
with tension. 
How many of these things are there? 
As soon as the zombie cleared the corner, she fired, 
the Beretta jumping lightly in her sweating hands. 
The second shot punctured its right eye and it imme- 
diately collapsed to the dark, polished wood of the 
floor, the sticky, viscous matter of the blown eyeball 
flecked across its skeletal face. 
Jill waited, but other than the spreading pools of 
blood around the dead creatures, nothing moved. 
Breathing through her mouth to avoid the worst of the 
stench, she hurried to the back of the hall and turned 
right, down a short, tight passage that dead ended at a 
rusting metal door. 
It creaked open and fresh air flooded past her, 
warm and clean after the morgue-like chill of the 
house. Jill grinned, hearing the drone of cicadas and 
crickets on the night air. She'd reached the final leg of 
her little excursion, and although she wasn't outside 
yet, the sounds and smells of the forest renewed her 
sense of accomplishment. 
Got a secured path now, straight to the back of this 
place. We can head north, hit one of the logging roads 
and hike down to the barricade. . . 
She stepped out onto a covered walkway, a mosaic 
of green stone surrounded by high concrete walls. 
There were small intermittent openings near the 
ceiling of the pathway, accounting for the faint, pine- 
scented breeze. Ivy trickled down from the arched 
openings like a reminder of the outside world. She 
hurried down the dim passage, remembering from the 
map that there was a single room at the end and to the 
right, probably a storage shed. 
She turned the corner and stopped at another 
heavy-looking metal door, her smile fading as she 
reflexively reached for the handle; the keyhole was 
plugged. She crouched and poked at the tiny hole, but 
to no avail. Someone had stopped it up with epoxy. 
To the left of the door was some kind of diagram set 
into the concrete, made of dull copper. There were 
four hexagonal depressions in the flat metal plate, 
each fist-sized hole connected to the next by a thin 
line. Jill squinted at the legend etched beneath, wish- 
ing that she had a flashlight as she struggled to make 
out the words. She brushed a thin layer of dust off of 
the indented letters and tried again. 
WHEN THE SUN ... SETS IN THE WEST AND THE 
MOON RISES IN THE EAST, STARS WILL BEGIN TO 
APPEAR IN THE SKY ... AND WIND WILL BLOW TOWARD 
THE GROUND. THEN THE GATE OF NEW LIFE WILL OPEN. 

She blinked. Four holes - Trent's list!  
Four crests, and something about the gate of new life –  
- it's a combination mechanism for the 
lock. Place the four crests, the door opens . . . 
. . . except that means I have to find them first. 
Jill pushed against the door and felt her hope fizzle 
out completely; not even a rattle, no give at all. They 
were going to have to find another way out, unless the 
crests could be found - which in this place could take 
years. 
A lone howl rose in the distance and was joined by 
the echoing cries of the dogs near the mansion, the 
strange, yodeling sounds piercing the gentle quiet of 
the woods. There had to be dozens of them out there, 
and Jill realized suddenly that escaping out the back 
door probably wasn't such a hot idea. She had limited 
ammunition for her handgun and no doubts that 
there were more ghoulish creatures wandering the 
halls, shuffling about in hungry, mindless silence as 
they searched for their next grisly meal. . . . 
She sighed heavily and started back to the house, 
already dreading the cold stench of death and trying 
to prepare herself for the dangers that seemed to lurk 
at every corner. 
The S.T.A.R.S. were trapped. 
 
Chris knew he had to make the ammo count, so 
when he left Rebecca, he took off through the dim 
corridor at a full run, his boots pounding at the wood 
floor. 
There were still only three of them, all grouped near 
the stairs. He dodged past them easily and sprinted 
down the hall and around the corner. As soon as he 
got to the door that led back to the other hall, he 
turned and assumed a classic shooter's stance, sup- 
porting his gun hand at the wrist, his finger on the 
trigger. 
One by one, the zombies reeled around the corner, 
groaning and stumbling. Chris took careful aim, 
breathing evenly, keeping his focus. . . . 
He squeezed the trigger, sending two bullets 
through the gangrenous nose of the first. Without 
pausing, he sent a third shot into the center of the next 
zombie's forehead. Fluid and soft matter sprayed the 
wall behind them as the bullets slapped into the 
wood. 
Even as they crumpled to the floor, he'd found his 
mark on the third creature. Two more muted explo- 
sions and the zombie's brow caved inward, dropping 
it like the bag of bones that it was. 
Chris lowered the Beretta, feeling a flush of pride. 

He was a high-ranked marksman, even had a couple 
of awards to show for it, but it was still good to see 
what he could do when given enough time to aim. His 
quick-draw wasn't nearly as strong, that was Barry's 
forte. 
He reached for the door handle, urged into action 
by the thought of all that was at stake. He figured the 
Alphas could take care of themselves, they had as 
much of a chance as he did, but this was Rebecca's 
first operation and she didn't even have a gun; he 
needed to get her out. 
He stepped back into the soft light of the hall with 
the green wallpaper, quickly checking both direc- 
tions. Straight ahead, the corridor was in heavier 
shadow; no way to tell if it was clear. 
To his right was the door with the sword on the key 
plate and the first zombie he'd shot, still sprawled 
lifelessly across the floor. Chris was gratified to see 
that it hadn't moved. Apparently head shots were the 
best way to kill a zombie, just like in the movies. . . 
Chris edged toward the sword door, training his 
weapon left, then right, then left again; he'd had 
enough surprises for one day. He checked the small 
offshoot across from the door and seeing that it was 
clear, quickly inserted the slender key into the lock. 
It turned smoothly. Chris stepped into a small 
bedroom, only slightly better lit than the corridor, a 
single bright lamp on a desk in one corner. It was all 
clear, unless there was something hiding under the 
narrow cot ... or maybe in the closet across from the 
desk. 
He shuddered, closing the door behind him. It was 
every kid's first set of fears, and had been his, too. 
Monsters in the closet and the thing that lived under 
the bed, waiting for the careless child's ankle to come 
within reach. 
And how old arw you now? 
Chris shook off the case of nerves, embarrassed at 
his imaginative wanderings. He walked slowly around 
the room, looking for anything that might be helpful. 
There was no other door, no path back to the main 
hall, but maybe he could find a better weapon for 
Rebecca than a can of bug spray. 
Besides an oak table and bookshelf, there was the 
small, unmade bed and a study desk in the room, 
nothing more. He quickly rifled through the books, 
then moved around the foot of the bed to the desk. 
There was a slim volume next to the desk lamp, the 
fabric cover untitled; a journal. And although the 
desktop was coated in dust, the diary had been moved 
recently. 

Intrigued, Chris picked it up and flipped to the last 
few pages. Maybe there was a clue as to what the hell 
was going on. He sat on the edge of the cot and started 
to read. 
May 9, 1998: Played poker tonight with Scott and Alias 
from Security, and Steve from Research. Steve was the 
big winner, but I think he was cheating. Scumbag. 
Chris smiled a little at that. He skipped down to the 
next entry and his smile froze, his heart seeming to 
pause in mid-beat. 
May 10,1998: One of the higher-ups assigned me to take 
care of a new experiment. It looks like a skinned gorilla. 
Feeding instructions were to give it live animals. When I 
threw in a pig, the creature seemed to be playing with it 
tearing off the pig's legs and pulling out the guts before it 
actually started eating. 
Experiment? Could the writer be talking about the 
zombies? Chris read on, excited by the find. The diary 
obviously belonged to someone who worked here, had 
to be meaning that the cover-up was even bigger 
than he'd suspected. 
May 11, 1998: At around 5 A.M., Scott woke me up. 
Scared the shit out of me, too. He was wearing a protective 
garment that looked like a space suit. He handed me 
another one and told me to put it on. Said there'd been an 
accident in the basement lab. I just knew something like 
this would happen. Those assholes in Research never rest, 
even at night. 
May 12, 1998: I've been wearing the damn space suit 
since yesterday. My skin's getting grimy and feels itchy all 
over. The goddamn dogs have been looking at me funny, so I 
decided not to feed them today. Screw 'em. 
May 13,1998: Went to the Infirmary because my back is 
all swollen and feels itchy. They put a big bandage on it and 
told me I didn't need to wear the suit any more. All I wanna 
do is sleep. 
May 14, 1998: Found another blister on my foot this 
morning. I ended up dragging my foot all the way to the 
dogs' pen. They were quiet all day, which is weird. Then I 
realized some of them had escaped. If anybody finds out, I'll 
have my head handed to me. 
May 15, 1998: My first day off in a long time and I feel 
like shit. Decided to go visit Nancy anyway, but when I tried 
to leave the estate, I was stopped by the guards. They said 
the company's ordered that no one leave the grounds. I can't 
even make a phone call - all the phones have been ripped 
out! What kind of bullshit is this?! 
May 16, 1998: Rumor's going around that a researcher 
who tried to escape the estate last night was shot. My entire 
body feels hot and itchy and I'm sweating all the time now. I 
scratched the swelling on my arm and a piece of rotten flesh 

just dropped off. Wasn't until I realized the smell was 
making me hungry that I got violently sick. 
The writing had become shaky. Chris turned the 
page, and could barely read the last few lines, the 
words scrawled haphazardly across the paper. 
May 19. Fever gone but itchy. Hungry and eat doggie 
food. Itchy itchy Scott came ugly face so killed him. Tasty. 
4 // Itchy. Tasty. 
The rest of the pages were blank. 
Chris stood up and slipped the journal inside his 
vest, his thoughts racing. Some of the pieces were 
finally fitting into place - secret research at a secretly 
kept estate, an accident in a hidden lab, an escaped 
virus or infection of some kind that altered the people 
working here, changing them into ghouls . . . 
. . . and some of them got out. 
The murders and attacks on Raccoon started in late 
May, coinciding with the effects of the "accident"; the 
chronology made sense. But exactly what kind of 
research was being done here, and how deeply in- 
volved was Umbrella? 
How involved was Billy? 
He didn't want to think about that, but even as he 
tried to clear his mind of the thought, a new one 
occurred to him . . . what if it was still contagious? 
He hurried to the door, suddenly desperate to get 
back to Rebecca with the news. With her training, 
maybe she could figure out what had been unleashed 
in the secret lab on the estate. 
Chris swallowed heavily. Even now, he and the 
other S.T.A.R.S. could be infected. 

E

IGHT

 

AFTER JILL AND BARRY WENT THEIR SEPA- 
rate ways, Wesker stayed crouched on the balcony in 
the main hall, thinking. He knew that time was of the 
essence, but he wanted to outline a few possible 
scenarios before he acted; he'd already made mis- 
takes, and didn't want to make any more of them. The 
Raccoon Alphas were a bright group, making his 
margin for error very slim indeed. 
He'd received his orders a couple of days ago, but 
hadn't expected to be in a position to carry them out 
so soon; the Bravo team's 'copter going down had 
been a fluke, as had Brad Vickers's sudden display of 
cowardice. Still, he should have been more prepared. 
Being caught with his pants down like this went 
against his grain, it was so ... unprofessional. 
He sighed, putting the thoughts aside. There'd be 
time for self-recrimination later. He hadn't expected 

to end up here, but here he was, and kicking himself 
for lack of foresight wasn't going to change anything. 
Besides, there was too much to do. 
He knew the grounds of the estate fairly well and 
the labs like the back of his hand, but he'd only been 
inside the mansion a few times and not at all since 
he'd been "officially" transferred to Raccoon City. 
The place was a maze, designed by a genius architect 
at the bidding of a madman. Spencer was bats, no two 
ways about it, and he'd had the house built with all 
kinds of tricky little mechanisms, a lot of that silly spy 
crap that had been so popular in the late sixties. . . 
Spy crap that's going to make this job twice as hard 
as it needs to be. Hidden keys, secret tunnels - it's like 
I'm trapped in an espionage thriller, complete with 
mad scientists and a ticking clock.  
His original plan had been to lead both the Alpha 
and Bravo teams to the estate and clear the area 
before he proceeded to the lower labs and wrapped 
things up. He had the master keys and codes, of 
course; they had been sent along with his orders, and 
would open most of the doors on the estate. The 
problem was, there was no key to the door that led to 
the garden, it had a puzzle lock and was currently 
the only way to get to the labs, outside of walking 
through the woods. 
Which ain't gonna happen. The dogs would be on 
me before I could take two steps, and if the 121s got 
out . . . 
Wesker shuddered, remembering the incident with 
the rookie guard who'd gotten too close to one of the 
cages, a year or so back. The kid had been dead before 
he could even open his mouth to call for help. Wesker 
had no intention of going back outside without an 
army to back him up. 
The last contact with the estate had been over six 
weeks ago, an hysterical call from Michael Dees to 
one of the suits in the White office. The doctor had 
sealed the mansion, hiding the four pieces of the 
puzzle lock in a fruitless effort to keep any more of the 
virus carriers from reaching the house. By then, they 
were all infected and suffering from a kind of para- 
noid mania, one of the more charming side effects of 
the virus. God only knew what tricks and traps the 
researchers down in the labs had screwed with as they 
slowly lost their minds. 
Dees had been no exception, although he had 
managed to hold out longer than most of the others; 
something to do with individual metabolism, or so 
Wesker'd been told. The company had already de- 
cided to call a complete wipe, though the babbling 

scientist had been assured that help was on the way. 
Wesker had enjoyed a good laugh over that one. There 
was no way the White boys would risk further infec- 
tion. They'd sat on their hands for almost two months 
while Raccoon suffered the consequences, letting the 
incompetent RPD investigate while the virus gradu- 
ally lost its punch and then sent him in to clean up 
the mess. Which by now was considerable. 
The captain absently ran his fingers across the plush 
carpet, trying to remember details of the briefing 
about Dees's call. Whether he liked it or not, every- 
thing had to be taken care of tonight. He had to collect 
the required evidence and get to the labs, and that 
meant finding the pieces of the puzzle lock. Dees had 
been mostly incoherent, ranting about murderous 
crows and giant spiders, but he had insisted that the 
crest-keys to the puzzle lock were "hidden where only 
Spencer could find them," and that made sense. 
Everyone who worked in the house knew about 
Spencer's penchant for cloak-and-dagger mecha- 
nisms. Unfortunately for Wesker, he hadn't bothered 
learning much about the mansion, since he never 
thought he'd need the information. He remembered a 
few of the more colorful hiding places - the statue of 
the tiger with mismatched eyes came to mind, as did 
the armor display room with the gas and the secret 
room in the library. . . 
But I don't have time to go through all of them, not 
by myself. 
Wesker grinned suddenly and stood up, amazed 
that he hadn't thought of it already. Who said he had 
to be by himself? He'd ditched the S.T.A.R.S. to map 
out a new plan and search for the crests, but there was 
no reason that he had to do everything. Chris wasn't 
viable, he was too gung-ho, and Jill was still an 
unknown quantity . . . Barry, though . . . Barry Bur- 
ton was a family man. And both Jill and Chris trusted 
him. 
And while they're all still fumbling around in the 
house, I can get to the triggering system and then get 
the hell out, mission complete. 
Still grinning, Wesker walked to the door that led to 
the dining room balcony, surprised to find that he was 
looking forward to his little adventure. It was a 
chance to test his skills against the rest of the team 
and against the accidental test subjects that were 
surely still lurching around not to mention, of 
Spencer himself. And if he pulled it off, he was going 
to be a very rich man. 
This might actually turn out to be fun. 

N

INE

 

CAW! 
Jill whipped her Beretta toward the sound, the 
mournful shriek echoing all around as the door 
slipped closed behind her. Then she saw the source of 
the noise and relaxed, smiling nervously. 
What the hell are they doing in here? 
She was still in the back part of the house, and had 
decided to check out a few of the other rooms before 
heading back to the main hall. The first door she'd 
tried had been locked, a carving of a helmet on the 
key plate. Her picks had been useless, the lock a type 
she'd never encountered, so she'd decided to try her 
luck on the door across the hall. It had opened easily 
enough, and she'd gone in ready for anything, 
though about the last thing she'd expected to see was a 
flock of crows, perched along the support bar for the 
track lighting that ran the length of the room. 
Another of the large black birds let out its morose 
shriek, and Jill shivered at the sound. There were at 
least a dozen of them, ruffling their shiny feathers and 
watching her with bright, beady eyes as she quickly 
surveyed the room for threats; it was clear. 
The U-shaped chamber she'd entered was as cold as 
the rest of the house, perhaps colder, and empty of 
furniture. It was a viewing hall, nothing but portraits 
and paintings lining the inner wall. Black feathers lay 
scattered across the worn wooden floor amidst dried 
mounds of bird droppings, and Jill wondered again 
how the crows had gotten inside, and how long they'd 
been there. There was definitely something strange 
about their appearance; they seemed much larger 
than normal crows, and they studied her with an 
intensity that seemed almost unnatural. 
Jill shivered again, turning back toward the door. 
There wasn't anything important in the room, and the 
birds were giving her the creeps. Time to move on. 
She glanced at a few of the paintings on her way 
out, mostly portraits, noticing that there were 
switches beneath the heavy frames - she assumed 
they were for the track lighting, though she couldn't 
imagine why anyone had bothered setting up such 
an elaborate gallery for such mediocre art. A baby, a 
young man . . . the paintings weren't awful, but 
they weren't exactly inspired, either. 
She stopped as she touched the cold metal handle of 
the door, frowning. There was a small, inset control 
panel set at eye level to the right of the door, labeled 
"spots." She punched one of the buttons and the 

room dimmed as a single directional light went out. 
Several of the crows barked their disapproval, flutter- 
ing ebony wings, and Jill turned the light back on, 
thinking. 
So if these are the light switches, what are the 
controls beneath the paintings for? 
Perhaps there was more to the room than she'd 
thought. She walked to the first picture across from 
the door, a large painting of flying angels and clouds 
shot with sunbeams. The title was, From Cradle to 
Grave. There wasn't a switch below it, and Jill moved 
to the next. 
It was a portrait of a middle-aged man, his lined 
features sagging with exhaustion, standing next to an 
elaborate fireplace. From the cut of his suit and his 
slicked back hair, it looked to have been painted in 
the late 1940s or early '50s. There was a simple on/off 
switch underneath, unlabeled. Jill flicked it from left 
to right and heard an electrical snap and behind her,  
the crows exploded into screaming motion,  
rising as one from their brooding perch. 
All she could hear was the beat of their dark wings 
and the sudden, manic ferocity of their cries as they 
swarmed toward her and Jill ran,  
the door seeming a million miles 
away, her heart pounding. The first of the crows 
reached her as she grabbed for the handle, its claws 
finding the soft skin at the back of her neck. There was 
a sharp stab of pain just behind her right ear and Jill 
flailed at the rustling feathers that brushed her cheeks, 
moaning as the furious shrieks enveloped her. She 
slapped at the air behind her and was rewarded with a 
startled squawk of surprise. The bird let go of her, 
reeling away. 
-too many, out out OUT- 
She jerked the door open and fell into the hallway, 
kicking the door closed even as she hit the floor. She 
lay there a moment, catching her breath, relishing the 
cool silence of the corridor in spite of the zombie 
stench. None of the crows had gotten out. 
As her heartbeat returned to something approach- 
ing normal, she sat up and carefully touched the 
wound behind her ear. Her fingers came away wet, but 
it wasn't too bad, the blood was already clotting; she'd 
been lucky. When she thought of what could have 
happened if she'd tripped and fallen . . . 
Why had they attacked, what had the control switch 
done? She remembered the snap of electricity when 
she'd flipped it, the sound of a spark- 
-the perch! 
She felt a sudden rush of grudging admiration for 

whoever had set up the simple trap. When she'd hit 
the switch, she must have sent a current through the 
metal bar they'd been perched on. She'd never heard 
of attack-trained crows, but could think of no other 
explanation-which meant that someone had gone 
through a lot of trouble to keep whatever was in that 
room a secret. To get to the answer, she'd have to go 
back in. 
I can stand in the doorway, take them out one at a 
time. . . She didn't much like the idea, she didn't 
trust her aim and would certainly waste a lot of 
ammunition. 
Only fools accept the obvious and go no further; use 
your brain, Jilly. 
Jill smiled a little; it was her father talking, remind- 
ing her of the training she'd had before the S.T.A.R.S. 
One of her earliest memories was of hiding in the 
bushes outside the rickety old house in Massachusetts 
that her father had rented for them, studying the dark, 
empty windows as he explained how to properly "case 
a prospect." Dick had made it into a game, teaching 
her over the next ten years all the finer points of 
breaking and entering, everything from how to re- 
move panes of glass without damaging them to walk- 
ing on stairs so they didn't creak and he'd also 
taught her, again and again, that every riddle had 
more than one answer. 
Killing the birds was too obvious. She closed her 
eyes, concentrating. 
Switches and portraits ... a little boy, a toddler, a 
young man, a middle-aged man . . . 
"From Cradle to Grave." Cradle to grave . . . 
Once the solution occurred to her, she was almost 
embarrassed by the simplicity of it. She stood up and 
dusted herself off, wondering how long it would take 
for the crows to return to their roost. Once they were 
settled, she shouldn't have any more problems uncov- 
ering the secret. 
She cracked the door open and listened to the 
whispering beat of wings, promising herself to be 
more careful this time. Pushing the wrong button in 
this house could be deadly. 
 
"Rebecca? Let me in, it's Chris." 
There was the sound of something heavy sliding 
against the wall and the door to the storage room 
creaked opened. Rebecca stepped away from the 
entrance as he hurried inside, already pulling the 
diary out of his vest. 
"I found this journal in one of the rooms," he said. 
"It looks like there was some kind of research going 

on here, I don't know what kind but..." 
"Virology," Rebecca interrupted, and held up a 
stack of papers, grinning. "You were right about there 
being something useful in here." 
Chris took the papers from her and skimmed the 
first page. As far as he could tell, it was in a foreign 
language made out of numbers and letters. 
"What is all this stuff? DH5a-MCR . . ." 
"You're looking at a strain chart," Rebecca said 
brightly. "That one's a host for generating genomic 
libraries containing methylated cytosine or adenine 
residues, depending." 
Chris cocked an eyebrow at her. "Let's pretend that 
I have no idea what you're talking about and try 
again. What did you find?" 
Rebecca flushed slightly and took the papers back 
from him. "Sorry. Basically, there's a lot of, uh, stuff 
in here on viral infection." 
Chris nodded. "That I understand; a virus . . ." 
He quickly flipped through the journal, counting 
the dates from the first report of the accident in the 
lab. "On May eleventh, there was some kind of spill 
or outbreak in a laboratory on this estate. Within 
eight or nine days, whoever wrote this had turned into 
one of those creatures out there." 
Rebecca's eyes widened. "Does it say when the first 
symptoms appeared?" 
"Looks like . . . within twenty-four hours, he or she 
was complaining of itchy skin. Swelling and blisters 
within forty-eight hours." 
Rebecca paled. "That's . . . wow." 
Chris nodded. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Is there 
any way to tell if we could be infected?" 
"Not without more information. All of that..." 
Rebecca motioned at the trunk full of papers, "...is 
pretty old, ten years plus, and there's nothing specific 
about application. Though an airborne with that kind 
of speed and toxicity ... if it was still viable, all of 
Raccoon City would probably be infected by now. I 
can't be positive, but I doubt it's still contagious." 
Chris was relieved for himself and the rest of the 
S.T.A.R.S., but the fact that the "zombies" were all 
victims of a disease - it was depressing, whether it 
was a disaster of their own making or not. 
"We have to find the others," he said. "If one of 
them should stumble across the lab without knowing 
what's there ..." 
Rebecca looked stricken at the thought, but nodded 
gamely and moved quickly toward the door. Chris 
decided that, with a little experience, she'd make a 
first-rate S.T.A.R.S. member; she obviously knew her 

chemistry, and even without a gun, she was willing to 
leave the relative safety of the storage room in order 
to help the rest of the team. 
Together, they hurried through the dark, wooded 
hallway, Rebecca sticking close to his side. When they 
reached the door back to the first hallway, Chris 
checked his Beretta and then turned to Rebecca. 
"Stay close. The door we want is to the right and at 
the end of the hall. I'll probably have to shoot the 
lock, and I'm pretty sure there's a zombie or two 
wandering around, so I'll need you to watch my 
back." 
"Yes, sir," she said quietly, and Chris grinned in 
spite of the situation. Technically, he was her 
superior - still, it was weird to have it pointed out. 
He opened the door and stepped through, training 
his gun on the shadows straight ahead and then down 
the hall to the right. Nothing moved. 
"Go," he whispered, and they jogged down the 
corridor, quickly stepping over the fallen creature 
that blocked their path. Rebecca turned to face the 
open stretch behind them as Chris rattled the door 
knob, hoping vainly that it had unlocked itself. 
No such luck. He backed away from the door and 
took careful aim. Firing at a locked door wasn't as 
easy or safe as it looked in the movies; a ricochet off of 
metal at such close range could kill the shooter "Chris!" 
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shambling 
figure at the other end of the hall, moving slowly 
toward them. Even in the dim light, Chris could see 
that one of its arms was missing. The distinctive odor 
of decay wafted toward them as the zombie moaned 
thickly, stumbling forward. 
Chris turned back to the door and fired, twice. The 
frame splintered, the inset metal square of the lock 
revealed in a spray of wood chips. He jerked at the 
knob and the lock gave up, the door swinging open. 
He turned and grabbed at Rebecca's arm, hustling 
her through the doorway as he pointed the Beretta 
back down the hall. The creature had made it halfway, 
but was stopped at the lifeless body of the zombie that 
Chris had killed earlier. Even as Chris watched in 
horror and disgust, the one-armed zombie dropped 
to its knees and plunged its remaining hand into 
the other's crushed skull. It moaned again, a wet, 
phlegmy sound, and brought a handful of slushy gray 
matter to its eager lips. 
Oh, man. 
Chris shuddered involuntarily and hurriedly step- 
ped through to join Rebecca, closing the door on the 
gruesome scene. Rebecca was pale but seemed com- 

posed, and again, Chris admired her courage; she was 
young but tough, tougher than he'd been at eigh- 
teen.  
He took in the hall at a glance, immediately notic- 
ing the changes. To their right about twenty feet away 
was a corpse of one of the creatures, the top of its 
head blown away. It lay face up, the deep sockets of its 
eyes filled with blood. To their left were the two doors 
that Chris hadn't tried when he'd first come to 
investigate. The one at the very end of the hall was 
standing open, revealing deep shadows. 
At least one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this way, proba- 
bly looking for me. 
"Follow me," he said softly, and moved toward the 
open door, holding the Beretta tightly. He wanted to 
get back to the main hall with Rebecca, but the fact 
that one of his team must have gone through the 
opening deserved a quick look. 
As they passed the closed door on the right, 
Rebecca hesitated. "There's a picture of a sword next 
to the lock," she whispered. 
He kept his attention on the darkness just past the 
open door, but realized as she spoke that there were 
too many ways for them to get side-tracked. He didn't 
think the rest of the team was still waiting for him, 
but his original orders had been to report back to the 
lobby; he shouldn't be leading an unarmed rookie 
into unknown territory without at least checking. 
Chris sighed, lowering his weapon. "Let's get back 
to the main hall," he said. "We can come back and 
check it out later." 
Rebecca nodded and together they walked back 
toward the dining room, Chris hoping against hope 
that someone would be there to meet them. 
 
Barry pointed his Colt toward the crawling ghoul 
and fired, the heavy round splattering the thing's 
mushy skull into liquid even as it reached for his boot. 
Tiny drops of wetness splashed his face as the zombie 
spasmed and died. Scowling, Barry wiped at his skin 
with the back of his hand. The tiny white tiles of the 
kitchen wall got it much worse, rivulets of red cours- 
ing down the grouted tracks and pooling to the faded 
brown linoleum. Still, it was pretty disgusting. 
Barry lowered the revolver, feeling the ache in his 
left shoulder. The door upstairs had been solidly 
locked, he had the bruises to prove it and staring 
down at the zombie hash in front of him, he realized 
that he was going to have to go back up and break 
down another one. If he hadn't been certain before, 
he was now - Chris hadn't come this way. If he had, 

the crawling creature would already have been his- 
tory. 
So where the hell are you, Chris? 
Of the three locked doors, Barry had picked the one 
at the end of the hall on pure instinct. He'd ended up 
in a dark, silent hall that led past an empty elevator 
shaft and down a narrow set of stairs. The bare white 
kitchen at the bottom had seemed deserted, the 
counters thick with dust and corrosion stains on the 
walls - no sign of recent use, no sign of Chris, and 
the single door across from the sink had been locked. 
He'd been about to leave when he'd noticed the trails 
of disturbed dust on the floor and followed them.  
Sighing heavily, Barry stepped over the stinking 
monster, a final check before he headed back up for 
door number two. There were some stacked crates 
and the same old-fashioned elevator shaft, also emp- 
ty. He didn't bother with the call button since the one 
upstairs hadn't worked. Besides, judging from the rust 
on the metal grate, no one had used it in quite awhile. 
He turned back the way he'd come, wondering how 
Jill was making out. The sooner they could get away, 
the better. Barry had never disliked any place as much 
as he did this mansion. It was cold, it was dangerous, 
and it smelled like a meat locker that had been 
unplugged for a week. He generally wasn't the type to 
frighten easily or let his imagination get out of hand, 
but he half-expected to see some white-sheeted spook 
rattling chains every time he turned around. 
There was a distant echoing clatter behind him. 
Barry spun, a knot of dread in his gut as he pointed 
his weapon randomly at the empty air, his eyes wide 
and mouth dry. There was another metallic clatter, 
followed by a low, throbbing hum of machinery. 
Barry took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, 
getting a hold of himself. Not a disembodied spirit, 
after all; someone was using the elevator. 
Who? Chris and Wesker are missing and Jill's in the 
other wing. .. . 
He stayed where he was, lowering the Colt slightly 
as he waited. He didn't think the ghouls were smart 
enough to work the buttons, let alone open the gate, 
but he didn't want to take any chances. He was a good 
twenty feet from where the booth would open, assum- 
ing it stopped in the basement, and would have a clear 
shot at whoever stepped around the corner. A glim- 
mer of hope sparked through his confusion; maybe it 
was one of the Bravos, or someone who lived here and 
could tell them what had happened. 
With a dull dang, the elevator stopped in the 
kitchen. There was a squeal of dry metal hinges and 

footsteps and Captain Wesker stepped into view, his per- 
petual sunglasses propped on his tanned brow. 
Barry lowered the revolver, grinning as cool relief 
swept over him. Wesker stopped in his tracks and 
grinned back at him. 
"Barry! Just the man I was looking for," he said 
lightly. 
"God, you gave me a scare! I heard the elevator 
start up and thought I was gonna have a heart 
attack ..." Barry trailed off, his grin faltering. 
"Captain," he said slowly, "where did you go? 
When we came back, you were gone." 
Wesker's grin widened. "Sorry about that. I had 
some business to attend to - you know, call of na- 
ture?" 
Barry smiled again, but was surprised by the con- 
fession; trapped in hostile territory, and the man had 
gone off to take a leak? 
Wesker reached up and lowered his shades, break- 
ing their eye contact, and Barry suddenly felt a little 
nervous. Wesker's grin, if anything, seemed to grow 
wider. It looked like every tooth was showing. 
"Barry, I need your help. Have you ever heard of 
White Umbrella?" 
Barry shook his head, feeling more uncomfortable 
by the second. 
"White Umbrella is a sector of Umbrella, Inc., a 
very important division. They specialize in ... bio- 
logical research, I guess you could say. The Spencer 
estate houses their research facilities, and recently, an 
accident occurred." 
Wesker brushed off a section of the kitchen's center 
island and casually leaned against it, his tone almost 
conversational. 
"This division of Umbrella has a few ties to the 
S.T.A.R.S. organization, and not long ago, I was 
asked to ... assist in their handling of this situation. 
It's a very delicate situation, mind you, very hush-hush;  
White Umbrella doesn't want a whisper of their 
involvement getting out.” 
"Now, what I'm supposed to do is get to the 
laboratories on the grounds here and put an end to 
some rather incriminating evidence-proof that 
White Umbrella is responsible for the accident that's 
caused so much trouble in Raccoon as of late. The 
problem is, I don't have the key to get to those labs- 
keys, actually. And that's where you come in. I need 
for you to help me find those keys." 
Barry stared at him for a moment, speechless, his 
mind churning. An accident, a secret lab doing biolog- 
ical research . . . 

. . . and murdering dogs and zombies loose in the 
tvoods. . . 
He raised his revolver and pointed it at Wesker's 
smiling face, stunned and angry. "Are you insane? 
You think I'm going to help you destroy evidence? 
You crazy son of a bitch!" 
Wesker shook his head slowly, acting as if Barry 
were a child. "Ah, Barry, you don't understand; you 
don't have a choice in the matter. See, a few of my 
friends from White Umbrella are currently standing 
outside of your house, watching your wife and daugh- 
ters sleep. If you don't help me, your family is going to 
die." 
Barry could actually feel the blood drain from his 
face. He cocked the hammer back on the Colt, feeling 
a sudden, vicious hatred for Wesker infusing every 
fiber of his being. 
"Before you pull the trigger, I should mention that 
if I don't report back to my friends fairly soon, their 
orders are to go ahead and do the deed anyway." 
The words cut through the red haze that had 
flooded Barry's mind, turning his hands clammy with 
terror. 
Kathy, the babies – I... 
"You're bluffing," he whispered, and Wesker's grin 
finally disappeared, his expression slipping back into 
the unreadable mask that he usually wore. 
"I'm not," he said coldly. "Try me. You can apolo- 
gize to their headstones later." 
For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence a 
palpable thing in the chill air. Then Barry slowly 
eased the hammer back down and lowered the weap- 
on, his shoulders slumped. He couldn't, wouldn 't risk 
it; his family was everything. 
Wesker nodded and reached into one of his pockets, 
producing a ring of keys, his manner suddenly brisk 
and business-like. "There are four copper plates 
somewhere in this house. Each one is about the size of 
a teacup, and has a picture engraved on one side: 
sun, moon, stars, and wind. There's a back door on 
the other side of the mansion where the four of them 
belong." 
He unhooked a key from the ring and set it on the 
table, sliding it across to Barry. "This should open all 
of the doors in the other wing, or at least the impor- 
tant ones, first and second floor. Find those pieces for 
me and your wife and children will be fine." 
Barry reached for the key with numb fingers, feeling 
weak and more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. 
"Chris and Jill. . ." 
"... will undoubtedly want to help you search. If 

you see either of them, tell them that the back door 
you've discovered could be the way out. I'm sure 
they'll be more than happy to work with their trusted 
friend, good ol' Barry. In fact, you should unlock 
every door you can in order to promote a more 
thorough job." 
Wesker smiled again, a friendly half-grin that belied 
his words. "Of course, you tell them you've seen 
me - that could complicate matters. If I run into 
trouble, say, get shot in the back . . . well, enough 
said. Let's just keep this to ourselves." 
The key was etched with a little picture, a chest 
plate for a suit of armor. Barry slipped it into his 
pocket. "Where will you be?" 
"Oh, I'll be around, don't worry. I'll contact you 
when the time is right." 
Barry looked at Wesker pleadingly, helpless to keep 
the wavering fear out of his voice. "You'll tell them 
that I'm helping you, right? You won't forget to 
report?" 
Wesker turned and walked toward the elevator, 
calling out over his shoulder. "Trust me, Barry. Do 
what I tell you, and there's nothing to worry about." 
There was the rattle of the elevator's gate opening 
and closing, and Wesker was gone. 
Barry stood a moment longer, staring into the 
empty space where Wesker had been, trying to find a 
way out of the threat. There wasn't one. There was no 
contest between his honor and his family; he could 
live without honor. 
He set his jaw and walked back toward the stairs, 
determined to do what he had to do to save Kathy and 
the girls. Though when this was over, when he could 
be sure they were safe. 
There won't be any place for you to hide, "Captain." 
Barry clenched his giant fists, knuckles whitening, 
and promised himself that Wesker would pay for what 
he was doing. With interest.

 

T

EN

 

JILL SLID THE HEAVY COPPER CREST WITH 
the engraved star into its position on the diagram, 
above the other three openings. It settled into place 
with a light click, flush against the metal plate. 
One down. . . She stepped back from the puzzle 
lock, smiling triumphantly. 
The crows had watched her walk through the hall of 
paintings without moving from their perch, crying 
out occasionally as she solved the simple puzzle. 
There had been six portraits in all, cradle to grave - 

- from a newborn baby to a rather stern-looking old 
man. She'd assumed they were all of Lord Spencer, 
though she'd never seen a photo. 
The final painting had been a death scene, a pale 
man lying in state and surrounded by mourners. 
When she'd flipped the switch on that one, the 
painting had actually fallen off the wall, pushed out 
by tiny metal pegs at each corner. Behind it had been 
a small, velvet-lined opening that held the copper 
crest. She'd left the hall without any more trouble; 
if the birds had been disappointed, she couldn't 
say. 
She took a final deep breath of the pleasant night air 
before going back into the mansion, pulling Trent's 
computer from her pack as she went. Stepping care- 
fully over the crumpled corpse in the dim hall, she 
studied the map, deciding where to try next. 
Back the way she'd come, it looked like. She went 
back through the double doors that connected the 
corridors, into the winding, mild, gray-green hall with 
the landscape paintings. According to the map, the 
single door just across from her led to a small, square- 
shaped room which opened into a larger one. 
Tensing, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open, 
crouching and pointing her Beretta at the same time. 
The small room was indeed square-shaped, and to- 
tally empty. 
Straightening, Jill stepped into the chamber, briefly 
appraising its simple elegance as she walked toward 
the door on her right. It had a high, light ceiling and 
the walls were creamy marble flecked with gold; 
beautiful. And expensive, to say the least. She felt a 
vague wistfulness for the old days with Dick, all their 
grand plans and hopes for each score. This was what 
real money could buy.  
She readied herself, grasping the cold, flowing met- 
al of the latch and pushing the door open. A quick 
sweep with the Beretta and she felt herself relax; she 
was alone. 
There was a molded fireplace to her right beneath 
an ornate, red and gold tapestry. A low, modern 
couch and oval coffee table sat atop a burnt orange 
carpet of oriental design, and against the back wall - 
- a pump-action shotgun was mounted on dual 
hooks, shining in the light from the antique light 
fixture overhead. Jill grinned and hurried across the 
room, unable to believe her luck. 
Please be loaded, please be loaded. 
As she stopped in front of it, she recognized the 
make. Guns weren't her strong suit, but it was the 
same as the S.T.A.R.S. used: a Remington M870, five 

shots. 
She bolstered the Beretta and lifted the shotgun 
with both hands, still grinning - 
- and the smile dropped away as both mounting 
hooks clicked upward, released from the weight of the 
gun. At the same time, there was a heavier sound 
behind the wall, a sound like balanced metal changing 
position. 
Jill didn't know what it was, but she didn't like it. 
She turned around quickly, searching the room for 
movement. It was as still as when she'd entered, no 
screaming birds, no sudden alarms or flashing lights, 
none of the pictures fell off the wall. There was no 
trap. 
Relieved, she quickly checked the weapon and 
found it fully loaded. Someone had taken care of it, 
the barrel clean and smelling faintly of cleaner and 
oil; right now, it was about the best smell she could 
imagine. The solid weight of it in her hands was 
reassuring, the weight of power. 
She searched the rest of the room and was disap- 
pointed not to find any more shells. Still, the Reming- 
ton was a find. S.T.A.R.S. vests had a back holster for 
a shotgun or rifle, and although she wasn't that hot 
with an over-the-shoulder draw, at least she could 
carry it without tying up her hands. 
There was nothing else of interest in the room. Jill 
walked to the door, excited to get back to the main 
hall and share her discoveries with Barry. She'd 
checked out every room that she could open on this 
side of the first floor. If he'd managed the same, they 
could head upstairs to finish their search for the 
Bravos and their missing teammates. 
And then, hopefully, get the hell out of this morgue. 
She closed the door behind her and strode across 
the slate-colored tiles of the classy marble room, 
hoping, as she grasped the knob, that Barry had found 
Chris and Wesker. They sure didn't come this way. 
The door was locked. Jill frowned, turning the 
small gold knob back and forth. It rattled a little, but 
wouldn't give at all. She peered at the crack where the 
door met the frame, suddenly a little anxious. 
There it was, by the handle-the thick sliver of 
steel that indicated a dead-bolt, and a very solid one; 
the entire area surrounding it was reinforced. But only 
one keyhole, and that's for the knob... 
Click! Click! Click! 
Dust rained down from above as the sound of gears 
turning filled the room, a deep, rhythmic clatter of 
metal from somewhere behind the stone walls. 

What? 
Startled, Jill looked up-and felt her stomach 
shrivel in on itself, her breath catching in her throat. 
The high ceiling that she'd admired earlier was mov- 
ing, the marble at the corners powdering into dust 
with the heavy grind of stone against stone. It was 
coming down. 
In a flash she was back at the door to the shotgun 
room. She snatched at the handle, pushing it 
down . . . 
. . . and found it locked as solidly as the first. 
Holy shit! Bad thing! Bad thing! 
Panic rising through her system, Jill ran back to the 
other door, her frightened gaze drawn back to the 
lowering ceiling. At two to three inches each second, 
it'd hit the floor in less than a minute. 
Jill raised the shotgun and aimed at the door to the 
hall, trying not to think about how many shots it 
would take to blow apart a reinforced steel dead-bolt; 
it was all she had, the picks wouldn't work on that 
kind of lock. 
The first round exploded against the door and 
splinters flew, revealing exactly what she'd feared. 
The metal plate that supported the bolt extended 
across half the door. Her mind raced for an answer 
and came up blank. She didn't have the shells to blow 
through it and the Beretta carried hollow points, they 
flattened on impact. 
Maybe I can weaken it, break it down. 
She fired again, targeting the frame itself. The 
thunderous shot tore apart wood and chipped marble, 
but not enough, not even close. The ceiling continued 
its clattering descent, now less than ten feet above her 
head. She was going to be crushed to death. 
God, don't let me die like this. 
"Jill? Is that you?" 
A muffled voice called from the corridor, and she 
felt a sudden, desperate hope course through her at 
the sound. 
Barry! 
"Help! Barry, break it down, now!" Jill shouted, 
her voice high and shaking. 
"Get back!" 
Jill stumbled away as she heard a heavy blow strike 
the door. The wood shuddered but held. Jill let out a 
low cry of helpless frustration, her terrified gaze 
jumping between the door and the ceiling. 
Another solid, shaking hit to the door. Five feet 
overhead. 
Come on, come ON. 
The third pounding blow was joined by the crunch 

and splinter of wood. The door flew open, Barry 
framed in the entry, his face red and sweating, his 
hand reaching for hers. 
Jill lunged forward and he grabbed her wrist, liter- 
ally jerking her off of her feet and into the corridor. 
They crashed to the floor as behind them, the door 
was crushed off its hinges. Wood and metal squealed 
as the ceiling continued smoothly down, the door 
snapping in a series of harsh cracks. 
With a final, resonating boom of impact, the ceiling 
met the floor. It was over, the house again as silent as 
a tomb. They staggered to their feet, Jill staring at the 
doorway. The entire frame was filled with the solid 
block of stone that had been the ceiling, at least a 
couple of tons of rock. 
"Are you alright?" Barry asked. 
Jill didn't answer for a moment. She looked down 
at the shotgun she still held in her trembling hands, 
remembering how confident she'd been that there'd 
been no trap and for the first time, she wondered 
how they were ever going to make it out of this hellish 
place. 
 
They stood in the empty front hall, Chris pacing the 
carpet in front of the stairs, Rebecca standing ner- 
vously by the banister. The massive lobby was as cold 
and ominous as when Chris had first seen it, the mute 
walls giving away none of their secrets; the S.T.A.R.S. 
were gone, and there were no clues as to where or why. 
From somewhere deep in the mansion, there was a 
heavy rumbling sound, like a giant door being 
slammed. They both cocked their heads, listening, but 
it wasn't repeated. Chris couldn't even tell from what 
direction it had come. 
Terrific, that's just great. Zombies, mad scientists, 
and now things that go bump in the night. Priceless. 
He smiled at Rebecca, hoping that he looked less 
rattled than he felt. "Well, no forwarding message. I 
guess that moves us to plan B." 
"What's plan B?" 
Chris sighed. "Hell if I know. But we can start by 
checking out that other room with the sword key. 
Maybe we can dig up some more information while 
we wait for the team to reassemble, a map or some- 
thing." 
Rebecca nodded, and they headed back through the 
dining room, Chris leading the way. He didn't like the 
idea of exposing her to further danger, but he didn't 
want to leave her alone, either, at least not in the main 
hall; it didn't feel safe. 
As they passed the ticking grandfather clock, some- 

thing small and hard cracked beneath Chris's boot. 
He crouched down and scooped up a dark gray chunk 
of plaster. There were two or three other fragments 
nearby. 
"Did you notice these when we came through 
before?" he asked. 
Rebecca shook her head, and Chris ducked down, 
looking for more of them. He didn't remember if 
they'd been there before, either. On the other side of 
the table was a broken pile of the fragments. 
They hurried around the end of the long table past 
the elaborately decorated fireplace, stopping in front 
of the shattered pile. Chris nudged at the gray pieces 
with the tip of his boot. From the angles and shapes, it 
appeared to have been a statue of some kind. 
Whatever it was, it's garbage now. 
"Is it important?" Rebecca asked. 
Chris shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Worth a look, 
anyway. In a situation like this, you never know what 
might turn out to be a clue." 
The echoing tick of the old clock followed them 
back to the hall door and into the smell of decay that 
filled the tight corridor. Chris pulled the silver key out 
of a pocket as they headed right 
and stopped, quickly drawing his Beretta and 
moving closer to Rebecca. The door at the end of the 
hall was closed; when they'd left, it had been standing 
open. 
There was no sense of being watched, of movement 
in the hall, but someone must have come through 
while they'd been in the lobby. The thought was 
disconcerting, reaffirming Chris's uneasy feeling that 
secret things were happening all around them. The 
dead creature to their left was in the same position as 
before, its blood-filled eyes staring blindly at the low 
ceiling, and Chris wondered again who had killed it. 
He knew he should examine the corpse and the 
unsecured area beyond it, but didn't want to go off on 
his own until he got Rebecca somewhere safe. 
"Come on," he whispered, and they edged to the 
locked door, Chris handing the key to Rebecca so that 
he could watch the hall for attackers. With a soft click, 
the intricately paneled door was unlocked, and 
Rebecca gently pushed it open. 
Chris could feel that the room was okay even as he 
did a quick check and motioned for Rebecca to step 
inside. It was set up like a piano bar, a baby grand 
dominating the floor across from a built-in counter, 
complete with stools bolted along its length. Perhaps 
it was the soft lighting or the muted colors that gave it 
such an atmosphere of calm stillness. Whatever it 

was, Chris decided that it was the nicest room he'd 
encountered so far. 
And maybe a good place for Rebecca to stay while I 
try to find the others. 
Rebecca perched herself on the edge of the dusty 
black piano bench while Chris did a more thorough 
search of the room. There were a couple of potted 
plants, a small table, and a tiny alcove behind the wall 
where the piano was situated, a couple of wood 
bookshelves pushed in back. The only entrance was 
the one they'd come through. It was an ideal spot for 
Rebecca to hide. 
He holstered his weapon and joined her at the 
piano, trying to choose his words carefully; he didn't 
want to scare her with the suggestion that she stay 
behind. She smiled up at him hesitantly, looking even 
younger than she was, her spiky red bangs adding to 
the impression that she was only a child. . . 
. . . a child who got through college in less time than 
it took you to get your pilot's license; don't patronize 
her, she's probably smarter than you are. 
Chris sighed inwardly and smiled back at her. 
"How would you feel about staying here while I take a 
look around the house?" 
Her smile faltered a little, but she met his gaze 
evenly. "Makes sense," she said. "I don't have a gun, 
and if you run into trouble, I'd just slow you 
down." 
She grinned wider and added, "Though if you get 
your ass kicked by a mathematical theorem, don't 
come crying to me." 
Chris laughed, as much at his own faulty assump- 
tions as at her joke; she wasn't one to be underesti- 
mated. He walked to the door, pausing as his hand 
touched the knob. 
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he said. "Lock the 
door behind me, and don't go wandering off, okay?" 
Rebecca nodded, and he stepped back into the hall, 
closing the door firmly behind him. He waited until 
he heard the bolt drawn and drew his Beretta, the last 
trace of a smile falling away as he started briskly 
down the corridor. 
The closer he got to the rotting creature, the worse 
the smell. He took shallow sips of air as he reached 
the body, stepping past it to see if the hall continued 
on before he examined it for bullet holes 
and he stopped cold, staring at the second corpse 
stretched out in the alcove, headless and covered in 
blood. Chris studied the slack, lifeless features of the 
face that lay a foot away, recognizing them as Kenneth 
Sullivan's and felt a surge of anger and renewed 

determination sweep through him at the sight of the 
dead Bravo. 
This is wrong, all wrong. Joseph, Ken, probably 
Billy - how many others have died? How many more 
have to suffer because of a stupid accident? 
He finally turned away, striding purposefully to- 
ward the door that led back to the dining room. He'd 
start from the main hall, checking every possible path 
that the S.T.A.R.S. could have taken and killing every 
creature that got in the way of his search. 
His teammates weren't going to have died for 
nothing; Chris would see to it, if it was the last thing 
he ever did. 
 
Rebecca locked the door after Chris left, silently 
wishing him good luck before walking back to the 
dusty piano and sitting down. She knew that he felt 
responsible for her, and wondered again how she 
could've been so stupid, dropping her gun. 
At least if I had a gun, he wouldn't have to worry so 
much. I may be inexperienced, but I went through 
basic training, just like everybody else. 
She traced a finger aimlessly across the dusty keys, 
feeling useless. She should've taken some of those files 
from the storage room. She didn't know that there 
was much more to be learned from them, but at least 
she'd have something to read. She wasn't very good at 
sitting still, and having nothing to do only made it 
worse. 
You could practice, her mind suggested brightly, and 
Rebecca smiled a little, gazing down at the keys. No, 
thanks. She'd suffered through four long years of 
lessons as a child before her mother had finally let her 
quit. 
She stood up, looking randomly around the silent 
room for something to keep her occupied. She walked 
to the bar and leaned over it, but saw only a few 
shelves of glasses and a stack of napkins, all thinly 
coated with dust. There were several liquor bottles, 
most of them empty, and a few unopened bottles of 
expensive-looking wine on the counter behind the 
bar. 
Rebecca dismissed the thought even as it occurred 
to her. She wasn't much of a drinker, and now wasn't 
exactly the best time to tie one on. Sighing, she turned 
and surveyed the rest of the room. 
Besides the piano, there wasn't much to see. There 
was a single small painting of a woman on the wall to 
her left, a bland portrait in a dark frame; a slowly 
dying plant on the floor next to the piano, the leafy 
kind she always saw in nice restaurants; a table that 

extended out from the wall with an overturned marti- 
ni glass on top. Considering what she had to work 
with, the piano was starting to look pretty interest- 
ing. 
She walked past the baby grand and peered into the 
small opening to her right. There were two empty 
bookshelves pushed to one side, nothing interest- 
ing. 
Frowning, she stepped closer to the shelves. The 
smaller one on the outside was empty, but the one 
behind it. 
She placed her hands on either side of the end piece 
and pushed, sliding the outer shelf forward. It wasn't 
heavy and moved easily, leaving a track in the dust on 
the wood floor. 
Rebecca scanned the hidden shelves, feeling disap- 
pointed. A dented old bugle, a dusty glass candy dish, 
a couple of knickknack vases-and some piano sheet 
music propped up on a tiny holder. She peered down 
at the title and felt a sudden rush of warm nostalgia 
for when she used to play; it was Moonlight Sonata, 
one of her favorite pieces. 
She picked up the yellowing sheets, remembering 
the hours she'd put in trying to learn it when she was 
ten or eleven. In fact, it had been this very piece of 
music that had made her realize she wasn't cut out to 
be a pianist. It was a beautiful, delicate tune and she'd 
pretty much butchered it every time she took the 
bench. 
Still holding the composition, she walked back 
around the corner and gazed at the piano thought- 
fully. It wasn't like she had anything better to do. 
And besides, maybe one of the other team members 
will hear it and come knocking, trying to track down 
the source of the terrible noise. 
Grinning, she dusted the bench off and sat down, 
propping the sheets open on the music holder. Her 
fingers found the correct positions almost automati- 
cally as she read the opening notes, like she'd never 
given it up. It was a comforting feeling, a welcome 
change from the horrors inside the mansion. 
Slowly, hesitantly, she started to play. As the first 
melancholy sounds rose into the stillness, Rebecca 
found herself relaxing, letting tension and fear slip 
away. She still wasn't very good, her tempo as off as 
ever-but she hit all the right notes, and the strength 
of the melody more than made up for her lack of 
finesse. 
If only the keys weren't so stiff. 
Something moved behind her. 
Rebecca jumped up, knocking the bench over as she 

spun around, searching wildly for the attacker. What 
she saw was so unexpected that she froze for a few 
seconds, unable to comprehend what her senses were 
telling her. 
The wall is moving. 
Even as the last notes lingered in the cool air, a 
three-foot panel of the bare wall to her right slid 
upwards into the ceiling, rumbling to a gentle halt. 
For a moment she didn't move, waiting for some- 
thing terrible to happen, but as the seconds ticked 
past in silence, nothing else moved; the room was as 
quiet and non-threatening as before. 
Hidden sheet music. A strange stiffness to the 
keys . . . 
. . . like maybe they were connected to some kind of 
a mechanism? 
The narrow opening revealed a hidden chamber 
about the size of a walk-in closet, as softly lit as the 
rest of the room. Except for a bust and pedestal in the 
back, it was empty. 
She stepped toward the opening and then paused, 
thoughts of death-traps and poison darts whirling 
through her mind. What if she walked in and trig- 
gered some kind of a catastrophe? What if the door 
closed and she was trapped there, and Chris didn't 
come back? 
What if you were the only member of the S. T.A.R.S. 
who didn't accomplish jack-shit on this entire mission? 
Show some backbone. 
Rebecca steeled herself against the consequences 
and stepped inside, looking around cautiously. If 
there was a threat here, she didn't see it. The plain 
stucco walls were the color of coffee with cream, offset 
by dark wood trim. The light in the small chamber 
was provided by a window into a tiny greenhouse on 
her right, a handful of dying plants behind the dirty 
glass. 
She moved closer to the pedestal at the back, noting 
that the stone bust on top was of Beethoven; she 
recognized the stern countenance and heavy brow of 
the Moonlight Sonata's composer. The pedestal itself 
boasted a thick gold emblem shaped like a shield or 
coat of arms, about the size of a dinner plate. 
Rebecca crouched down next to the simple pillar, 
gazing at the emblem. It looked solid and thick, with a 
vaguely royal design in a paler gold set across the top. 
It looked familiar; she'd seen the same design some- 
where else in the house. 
In the dining room, over the fireplace! 
Yes, that was it, only the piece over the mantle 
was made out of wood, she was sure of it. She'd 

noticed it while Chris was looking at the broken 
statue. 
Curious, she touched the emblem, tracing the pat- 
tern across the front-and then grasped the slightly 
raised edges with both hands and lifted. The heavy 
emblem came away easily, almost as if it didn't belong 
there and behind her the secret door rumbled down, 
sealing her inside. 
Without hesitating, she turned and placed the em- 
blem back in its hollow-and the section of wall rose 
again, sliding up smoothly on hidden tracks. Re- 
lieved, she stared down at the heavy gold emblem, 
thinking. 
Someone had rigged all this up in order to keep the 
medal hidden, so it had to be important-but how 
was she supposed to remove it? Did the one over the 
fireplace also reveal a secret passage? 
Or... is the one over the fireplace the same size? 
She couldn't be positive, but she thought it was- 
and she knew instinctively that it was the right 
answer. If she switched the two of them, using the 
wood emblem to keep the door open and placing the 
gold one over the mantle . . . 
Rebecca headed back into the room, smiling. Chris 
told her to stay put, but she wouldn't be gone more 
than a minute or two-and perhaps when he got 
back, she'd have something to show him, a real 
contribution toward solving the secrets of the man- 
sion. 
And proof that she wasn't so useless after all. 

E

LEVEN

 

BARRY AND JILL STOOD IN THE COVERED 
walkway by the puzzle lock, breathing the clean night 
air. Beyond the high walls, the crickets and cicadas 
hummed their ceaseless song, a soothing reminder 
that there was still a sane world outside. 
Jill's brush with disaster had left her light-headed 
and somewhat nauseous, and Barry had gently led her 
to the back door, suggesting that the fresh air would 
do her good. He hadn't found Chris or Wesker, 
though he seemed certain that they were still alive. He 
brought her up to speed quickly, retracing his mean- 
dering path through the house as Jill leaned against 
the wall, still taking deep breaths of the warm air. 
"... and when I heard the shots, I came running." 
Barry rubbed absently at his short beard. He smiled 
at her, a somewhat hesitant grin. "Lucky for you. 
Another couple of seconds, you would've been a Jill 
sandwich." 

Jill smiled back gratefully, nodding, but noticed 
that he seemed a little . . . strained, the humor forced. 
Odd. She wouldn't have figured Barry as the type to 
tense up in the face of danger. 
Is it any wonder? We're trapped here, we can't find 
the team, and this entire mansion is out to get us. Not 
exactly a laugh-riot. 
"I hope I can return the favor if you ever get in a 
tight spot," she said softly. "Really. You saved my 
life." 
Barry looked away, flushing slightly. "Glad I could 
help," he said gruffly. "Just be more careful. This 
place is dangerous." 
She nodded again, thinking of how close she'd 
come to dying. She shivered slightly, then forced the 
thoughts away; they needed to be concentrating on 
Chris and Wesker. "So you do think they're still 
alive?" 
"Yeah. Besides the shell casings, there was a whole 
trail of those ghouls in the other wing, all with clean 
head shots; gotta be Chris - though I had to splatter a 
couple more of 'em upstairs, so I figure he holed up 
somewhere along the way." 
Barry nodded toward the copper diagram set into 
the wall. "So, was this star crest here already?" 
Jill frowned, a little surprised at the abrupt change 
of topic; Chris was one of Barry's closest friends. 
"No. I found it in another room with a trap. This 
place seems to be full of them. In fact, maybe we 
should look for Wesker and Chris together - no tell- 
ing what they might've stumbled into, or what else 
could happen to either of us." 
Barry shook his head. "I don't know. I mean, 
you're right, we should watch our step, but there are 
a lot of rooms, and our first priority ought to be 
securing an escape. If we split up, we can try to find 
the rest of these crests, and look for Chris at the same 
time. And Wesker." 
Though his demeanor didn't change, Jill had the 
sudden distinct impression that Barry was uncom- 
fortable. He had turned away to study the copper 
diagram, but it almost seemed as if he was trying to 
avoid eye contact. 
"Besides," he said, "we know what we're up against 
now. As long as we use a little common sense, we'll be 
fine." 
"Barry, are you okay? You seem-tired." It wasn't 
the right word, but it was the only one that came to 
Jill’s mind. 
He sighed, finally looking at her. He did seem tired; 
there were dark circles under his eyes, and his wide 

shoulders were slumped. 
"No, I'm alright. Just worried about Chris, you 
know." 
Jill nodded, but she couldn't shake the feeling that 
there was more to it than that. Since he'd pulled her 
out of the trap he'd been acting unusually subdued, 
even nervous. 
Paranoid much? This is Barry Burton you're talking 
about, the backbone of the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. - not 
to mention, the man who just saved your life. What 
could he possibly be hiding? 
Jill knew she was probably being overly suspi- 
Cious, but all the same, she decided to keep her 
mouth shut about Trent's computer. After all she'd 
been through, she wasn't feeling particularly trusting. 
And it sounded like he already had a pretty good idea 
of the mansion's layout, so it wasn't like he needed the 
information. 
That's it, keep rationalizing. Next thing, you'll be 
suspecting Captain Wesker of planning this whole 
thing. 
Jill scoffed inwardly as she pushed herself away 
from the wall and she and Barry walked slowly back 
toward the house. Now that was paranoid. 
They stopped as they reached the door, Jill taking a 
few final lungfuls of the sweet air, letting it settle her 
nerves. Barry had taken out his Colt Python and was 
reloading the empty chambers, his expression grim. 
"I thought I'd go back over to the east wing, see if I 
can pick up Chris's trail," he said. "Why don't you 
head upstairs and start looking for the other crests? 
That way we can cover all of the rooms, work our way 
back to the main hall." 
Jill nodded and Barry opened the door, the rusty 
hinges squealing in protest. A wave of cold swept past 
them and Jill sighed, trying to prepare herself to face 
another maze of frigid, shadowy halls, another series 
of unopened doors and the secrets that lay behind 
them. 
"You're gonna do fine," Barry said smoothly, plac- 
ing a warm hand on her shoulder and gently ushering 
her back inside. As soon as the door closed behind 
them he lifted his hand in a casual salute, smiling. 
"Good luck," he said, and before she could re- 
spond, he turned and hurried away, weapon in hand. 
With another creak of ancient metal, he slipped 
through the double doors at the end of the hall and 
was gone. 
Jill stared after him, alone once again in the chilled, 
stinking silence of the dim corridor. It wasn't her 
imagination; Barry was keeping something from her. 

But was it something she needed to worry about, or 
was he just trying to protect her? 
Maybe he found Chris or Wesker, dead, and didn't 
want to tell me. 
It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it would explain 
his strange, hurried behavior. He obviously wanted 
them to get out of the house as soon as possible, and 
wanted her to stay on the west side. And the way he'd 
fixated on the puzzle mechanism, seeming more con- 
cerned with their exit than with Chris's or Wesker's 
whereabouts. . . 
She looked down at the two crumpled figures in the 
hall, at the tacky, drying pools of red that surrounded 
them. Maybe she was trying too hard to find a motive 
that didn't exist. Maybe, like her, Barry was scared, 
and sick of feeling like death could come at any time. 
Maybe I should stop thinking about it and do my 
job. Whether or not we find the others, he's right about 
needing to get out. We have to get back to the city, let 
people know what's out here. 
Jill straightened her shoulders and walked to the 
door that led to the stairwell, drawing her weapon. 
She'd made it this far she could make it a little 
farther, try to unravel the mystery that had taken the 
lives of so many or die trying, her mind whispered softly. 
 
Forest Speyer was dead. The laughing, Southern 
good ol’ boy with his ratty clothes and easy grin was 
no more. That Forest was gone, leaving behind a 
bloody, lifeless impostor slumped against a wall. 
Chris stared down at the impostor, the distant 
sounds of the night lost to a sudden gust of wind that 
whipped around the eaves, moaning through the 
railing of the second-story patio. It was a ghostly 
sound, but Forest couldn't hear it; Forest would never 
hear anything again. 
Chris crouched down next to the still body, care- 
fully prying Forest's Beretta from beneath cool fin- 
gers. He told himself he wouldn't look, but as he 
reached for Forest's belt pack, he found his gaze fixed 
on the terrible emptiness where the Bravo's eyes had 
once been. 
Jesus, what happened? What happened to you, man? 
Forest's body was covered with wounds, most an 
inch or two across and surrounded by raw, bloody 
flesh - it was as if he'd been stabbed hundreds of 
times with a dull knife, each vicious cut ripping away 
chunks of skin and muscle. Part of his ribcage was 
cruelly exposed, slivers of white showing beneath 
tattered redness. His eyeless, streaming stare was the 
crowning horror-like the killer hadn't been content 

to take Forest's life, wanting his soul instead. 
There were three clips for the Beretta in Forest's 
pack. Chris shoved the magazines into a pocket and 
quickly stood up, tearing his gaze from the mutilated 
body. He looked out over the dark woods, breathing 
deeply. His thoughts were jumbled and grasping, 
trying to find an explanation and yet unable to hold 
on to any coherent facts. 
Once in the main hall, he'd decided to check all of 
the doors to see which were unlocked and when 
he'd seen the bloody hand print in the tiny upstairs 
hall and heard the wailing cries of birds, he'd charged 
in, ready to deal out some justice. . . 
. . . crows. It sounded like crows, an entire flock . . . 
or a murder, actually. Pack of dogs, kindle of kittens, 
murder of crows . . . 
He blinked, his tired mind focusing on the seem- 
ingly random bit of trivia. Frowning, Chris crouched 
back down next to Forest's ravaged body, studying the 
jagged wounds closely. There were dozens of tiny 
scratches amidst the more serious cuts, scratches set 
into lined patterns. 
Claws. Talons. 
Even as the thought occurred to him, he heard a 
restless flutter of wings. He turned slowly, still holding 
Forest's Beretta in a hand that had suddenly gone 
cold. 
A sleek, monstrous bird was perched on the railing 
not two feet away, watching him with bright black 
eyes. Its smooth feathers gleamed dully against its 
bloated body . . . and a ribbon of something red and 
wet hung from its beak. 
The bird tilted its head to the side and let out a 
tremendous shriek, the streamer of Forest's flesh 
droooine to the railing. From all around, the answer- 
ing cries of its gathered siblings flooded the night air. 
There was a furious whisper of oversized wings as 
dozens of dark, fluttering shapes swooped out from 
beneath the eaves, screeching and clawing. 
Chris ran, the image of Forest's bloody, terrible 
eyes burned into his pounding thoughts as he lunged 
for escape. He stumbled into the tiny hall and 
slammed the door against the rising screams of the 
birds, adrenaline pumping through his system in hot, 
surging beats. 
He took a deep breath, then another, and after a 
moment, his heart slowed down to a more normal 
pace. The shrieks of the crows gradually grew distant, 
blown away on a softly moaning wind. 
Jesus, how dumb can I get? Stupid, stupid. 
He'd stormed out onto the deck looking for a 

fight, looking to avenge the deaths of the other 
S.T.A.R.S. and been shocked into stupidity by 
what he'd found. If he hadn't let himself get so 
freaked out by Forest's death, he would have made 
the connection sooner between the birds and the 
types of wounds and perhaps noticed the gather- 
ing flesh-eaters that had watched him from the 
shadows, looking for their next victim. 
He headed for the door back to the main hall, angry 
with himself for going into a situation unprepared. He 
couldn't afford to keep making mistakes, to let his 
attention wander from what was in front of him. This 
wasn't some kind of a game, where he could push a 
reset button if he missed a trick. People were dying, 
his friends were dying - and if you don't pull your head out 
of your ass and start being more careful,  
you 're going to join them. 
Another torn and lifeless body crumpled in a cold 
hallway somewhere, another victim to the insanity of 
this house. 
Chris silenced the nagging whisper, taking a deep 
breath as he stepped back into the high gallery of the 
lobby and closed the door behind him. Beating him- 
self up was no more useful than charging blindly 
around in a strange and dangerous environment, 
looking for revenge. He had to concentrate on what 
was important: the lost Alphas and Rebecca.  
He walked toward the stairs, tucking Forest's weap- 
on into his waistband. At least Rebecca would be able 
to defend herself. 
"Chris." 
Startled, he looked down to see the young 
S.T.A.R.S. member at the base of the wide steps, 
grinning up at him. 
He jogged down the stairs, glad to see her in spite of 
himself. "What happened? Is everything all right?" 
Rebecca held up a silver key as he reached her, still 
smiling widely. "I found something I thought you 
could use." 
He took the key, noting that the handle was etched 
with a tiny shield before slipping it inside his vest. 
Rebecca was beaming, her eyes flashing with excite- 
ment. 
"After you left, I played the piano and this secret 
door opened up in the wall. There was this gold 
emblem inside, like a shield, and I switched it with 
the one in the dining room and the grandfather 
clock moved, and that key was behind it." 
She broke off suddenly, her smile faltering as she 
studied his face. "I'm sorry ... I know I shouldn't 
have left, but I thought I could catch you before you 

got too far ..." 
"It's okay," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm just 
surprised to see you. Here, I found you something a 
little better than a can of insect repellent." 
He handed her the Beretta, pulling out a couple of 
clips to go with it. Rebecca took the gun, staring down 
at it thoughtfully. 
When she looked up at him again, her gaze was 
serious and intense. "Who was it?" 
Chris thought about lying, but saw that she wasn't 
going to buy it and realized suddenly what it was 
about her that made him feel so protective, that made 
him want to shield her from the sad and sickening 
truth. 
Claire. 
That was it; Rebecca reminded him of his little 
sister, from her tomboy sarcasm and quick wit to the 
way she wore her hair. 
"Listen," she said quietly, "I know you feel respon- 
sible for me, and I admit that I'm pretty new at this. 
But I'm a member of this team, and sheltering me 
from the facts could get me killed. So-who was it?" 
Chris stared at her for a moment and then sighed. 
She was right. "Forest. I found him outside, he'd been 
pecked to death by crows. Kenneth's dead, too." 
A sudden anguish passed across her eyes, but she 
nodded firmly, keeping her gaze on his. "Okay. So 
what do we do now?" 
Chris couldn't help the slightest of smiles, trying to 
remember if he'd ever been so young. 
He motioned up the stairs, hoping that he wasn't 
about to make another mistake. "I guess we try 
another door." 
 
Wesker didn't catch much of the conversation be- 
tween Barry and Jill, but after a muffled, "Good 
luck," from Mr. Burton, he heard a door open and 
close somewhere near by and a moment later, the 
hollow thump of bootsteps against wood, followed by 
another closing door. The hall outside was clear, his 
team off on their mission to find the rest of the copper 
crests. 
Looks like I picked the right room to wait in. 
He'd used the helmet key to lock himself into a 
small study by the back door, the perfect place from 
which to monitor the team's progress. Not only could 
he hear them coming and going, he'd be able to get a 
head start to the labs.  
He held the heavy wind crest up to the light of the 
desk lamp, grinning. It had been too easy, really. He'd 
happened across the plaster statue on his way back 

from talking to Barry, and remembered that it had a 
secret compartment somewhere. Rather than waste 
valuable time searching, he'd simply pushed the hide- 
ous thing off the dining room balcony. It hadn't been 
hiding one of the crests, but the sparkle of the blue 
jewel amidst the rubble had been almost as good. 
There was a room just off the dining hall that held a 
statue of a tiger with one red eye and one blue, one of 
the few mechanisms that he'd remembered from an 
earlier visit. A quick visit to the statue had confirmed 
his suspicions; both eyes had been missing, and when 
he'd placed the gaudy blue jewel into its proper 
socket, the tiger had turned to one side and presented 
him with the crest. Just like that, he was one step 
closer to completing his mission. 
When the other three are in place, I'll wait until 
they're off looking for the final piece and then slip right 
out the door. 
He considered going to check the diagram, but 
decided against it. The house was big, but not that big, 
and there was no need to expose himself to further 
risk of being seen. Besides, they probably hadn't 
managed to find any of the other crests yet. He'd 
already had a close call when he'd gone downstairs to 
retrieve the jewel, almost stepping directly into Chris 
Redfield's path. Chris had found the rookie and the 
two of them were blundering around, probably look- 
ing for "clues." 
Besides, this room is comfortable. Maybe I'll take a 
nap while I wait for the rest of them to catch up. 
He leaned back in the desk chair, pleased with 
himself for all he'd accomplished so far. What could 
have been a disaster was turning out quite nicely, 
thanks to some quick thinking on his part. He had 
already found one of the crests, he had Barry and Jill 
working for him and he'd had the good fortune to 
run into Ellen Smith while he'd been in the library.  
Oops, scratch that. It's Doctor Ellen Smith, thank 
you very much. 
After fetching the wind crest, he'd gone to the 
library to check the small side room that overlooked 
the estate's heliport, the entrance concealed behind a 
bookcase. A quick search had revealed nothing useful, 
and he'd been about to check the back room when Dr. 
Smith had shambled out to greet him. 
He had tried to get a date with her ever since he'd 
moved to Raccoon, drawn in by her long legs and 
platinum blond hair; he'd always been partial to 
blonds, particularly smart ones. Not only had she 
repeatedly turned him down, she hadn't even tried to 
be nice about it. When he'd called her Ellen, she'd 

coolly informed him that she was his superior and a 
doctor, and would be addressed as such. Ice queen, 
through and through. If she hadn't been so damned 
good-looking, he never would've bothered in the first 
place. 
But my, how your beauty has faded, Dr. Ellen. . . 
Wesker closed his eyes, smiling, reliving the experi- 
ence. It had been the ratty strings of blond hair that 
had given her away as she'd shuffled out from behind 
a shelf, moaning and reaching for him. Her legs were 
still long, but they'd lost a lot of their appeal - not to 
mention a fair amount of skin. 
"What lovely perfume you're wearing, Dr. Smith," 
he'd said. Then two shots to the head, and she'd gone 
down in a spray of blood and bone. Wesker didn't like 
to think of himself as a shallow man, but pulling the 
trigger on that high-riding bitch had been wonder- 
fully- no, deeply-gratifying. 
Like icing on a cake, a little bonus perk for taking 
matters in hand. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll run into that 
prick Sarton down in the labs. . . 
After a few moments, Wesker stood up and 
stretched, turning to scan some of the titles on the 
bookshelf behind him. He was eager to get moving, 
but it might take the S.T.A.R.S. awhile to find the rest 
of the puzzle pieces and there was really nothing he 
could do to hurry the process; he might as well keep 
busy. 
He frowned, struggling to make sense of the techni- 
cal titles. One of the books was called, Phagemids: 
Alpha Complementation Vectors, the next one was, 
cDNA Libraries and Electrophoresis Conditions. 
Biochemistry texts and medical journals, terrific. 
Maybe he'd get that nap in after all. Just reading the 
titles was making him sleepy. 
His gaze fell across a heavy-looking tome sitting by 
itself on one of the lower shelves, bound in a fine red 
leather. He picked it up, glad to see a title he could 
read printed across the front, even one as stupid as, 
Eagle of East, Wolf of West. 
Wait - that's the same thing written on the fountain. 
Wesker stared at the words, feeling his good mood 
slipping away. It couldn't be, the researchers had gone 
nuts but surely they wouldn't have locked down the 
labs, there was no reason for it. He opened the book 
almost frantically, praying that he was wrong 
and let out a low moan of helpless rage at what 
was tucked into the sham book's glued pages. A brass 
medallion with an eagle engraved on it lay in the cut 
away compartment - part of a key to yet another of 
Spencer's insane locks. 

It was like the punch line to a cruel joke. To get out 
of the house, he had to find the crests. Once out in the 
courtyard, he'd have to make his way through a 
winding maze of tunnels that ended in a hidden 
section of the garden - where there was an old stone 
fountain that marked the entrance to the under- 
ground labs. The fountain was one of Spencer's 
fanciful creations, a marvel of engineering that could 
be opened and closed to hide the facility under- 
neath - provided, of course, that you had the keys: 
two medallions made out of brass, an eagle on one, a 
wolf on the other.  
Finding the eagle meant that the gate was closed. 
And that meant that the wolf could be anywhere, 
anywhere at all and that his chances of even getting 
to the lab had just dropped down to somewhere near 
zero. 
Unable to control his fury, he snatched up the 
medal and threw the book against the desk, knocking 
the lamp over with a crash and plunging the room 
into sudden blackness. There was no longer any point 
in holding on to the wind crest; his perfect plan was 
ruined. He'd have to give up his edge and hope that 
one of the others would inadvertently stumble across 
the wolf medal for him, secreted away somewhere on 
the massive, sprawling estate. 
Which means more risk, more searching and a 
chance that one of them will reach the labs before I do. 
Seething, Wesker stood in the dark silence with his 
fists clenched, trying not to scream. 

T

WELVE

 

JILL HEARD SOMETHING LIKE BREAKING 
glass and held perfectly still, listening. The acoustics 
of the mansion were strange, the long corridors and 
unusual floor plan making it hard to tell where sounds 
were coming from. 
Or if you even heard them at all. . . 
She sighed, taking a last look around the quiet, 
book-lined sitting room at the top of the stairs. She'd 
already checked the three other rooms along the 
gallery railing and found exactly nothing of interest: 
a sparse bedroom with two bunks, an office, and an 
unfinished den with a locked door and a fireplace 
inside. The only switches she'd found were light 
switches, though she had gotten excited over a rather 
sinister-looking black button on the wall of the office 
until she'd pushed it, and found that she'd 
managed to discover the drainage control for an 
empty fish tank in the corner. 

She'd found some ammo for the Remington, she 
supposed she should be grateful for that - a dozen 
shells in a metal box underneath one of the bunks in 
the bedroom. But if there'd been any hidden crests, 
she'd missed them. 
Jill took out Trent's computer and checked the 
map, finding her position at the top of the stairs. Just 
past the sitting room's second door was a wide, 
U-shaped corridor that angled back around to the 
front hall balcony. The corridor also connected to two 
rooms, one a dead end and the other leading through 
several more.  
She put the computer away and drew her Beretta, 
taking a moment to clear her mind before stepping 
into the corridor. It wasn't easy. Between trying to 
figure out what had happened in the house to create 
monsters and her concerns for and about her team, 
her thoughts were distinctly messy. 
Should've looked closer at those papers. . . 
The office had been simple, a desk, a bookshelf, 
but there was a rack of lab coats by the door and the 
papers strewn across the desk had mostly been lists of 
numbers and letters. She knew just enough chemistry 
to know that she was looking at chemistry, so she 
didn't bother trying to read them, but since finding 
the papers, she had begun to think of the zombies as 
the result of a research accident. The mansion was too 
well maintained to have come from private money, 
and the fact that it had been kept a secret for so long 
suggested a cover up. She guessed that there was a 
couple of months worth of dust on almost every- 
thing - which coincided with the first attacks in Rac- 
coon. If the people in the house had been conducting 
some kind of an experiment and something had gone 
wrong . . . 
Something that transformed them into flesh-eating 
ghouls? That's a bit far-fetched. . . 
But it made more sense than anything else she 
could come up with, although she'd keep her mind 
open to other possibilities. As to her concerns about 
the team - Barry was acting weird and Chris and 
Wesker were still missing; no new developments 
there. 
And there won't be any if you don't get going. 
Right. Jill put her musings on hold and stepped out 
into the hall. 
She noticed the smell before she actually saw the 
zombie farther down the corridor, crumpled to the 
floor. The small wall sconces cast an uneven glow over 
the body, reflecting off of dark red trim and tinting 
everything in the corridor a smoky crimson. She 

trained her weapon on the still body and heard a 
door closing somewhere close by. 
Barry? 
He'd said he was going to be in the mansion's other 
wing, but maybe he'd found something and had come 
looking for her ... or maybe she was finally going to 
meet up with someone else from the team. 
Smiling at the thought she hurried down the 
gloomy hall, eager to see another familiar face. As she 
neared the corner, a fresh wave of decay washed over 
her and the fallen creature at her feet grabbed at her 
boot, clutching her ankle with surprising strength. 
Startled, Jill flailed her arms to keep her balance, 
crying out in disgust as the slobbering zombie inched 
its rotting face toward her boot. Its peeling, skeletal 
fingers scrabbled weakly at the thick leather, seeking a 
firmer grip and Jill instinctively brought her other boot 
down on the back of its head, the heavy treads sliding 
across the skull with a sickening wet sound. A wide 
piece of flaking scalp tore away, revealing glistening 
bone. The creature kept clawing at her, oblivious to 
pain. 
The second and third kicks hit the back of its 
neck and on the fourth, she felt as much as heard 
the dull snap of vertebrae giving out, crushed beneath 
her heel. 
The pale hands fluttered and with a choking, liquid 
sigh, the zombie settled to the musty carpet. 
Jill stepped over the limp body and ran around the 
corner, swallowing back bile. She was convinced that 
the pitiful creatures roaming the halls were victims 
somehow, just as much as Becky and Pris had been, 
and releasing them to death was a kindness, but they 
were also a menace, not to mention morbidly un- 
wholesome. She had to be more cautious. 
There was a door to her right, heavy wood overlaid 
with twining metal designs. There was a picture of 
armor over the key plate, but like the other doors 
she'd come across upstairs, it was unlocked. 
There was no one inside the well-lit room but she 
hesitated, suddenly reluctant to continue her search 
for whoever else was wandering the area. Two walls of 
the large chamber were lined with full suits of armor, 
eight to a side, and there was a small display case at 
the back - not to mention a large red switch set into 
the middle of the gray tiled floor. 
Another trap? Or a puzzle. . . 
Intrigued, she walked into the room and headed for 
the glass fronted display, the silent, lifeless guards 
seeming to watch her every move. There were a 
couple of mysterious grated holes in the floor, one on 

either side of the red switch, for ventilation per- 
haps and she felt her heart speed up a little, sud- 
denly sure that she had found another of the 
mansion's traps. 
A quick inspection of the dusty display case de- 
cided it for her; there wasn't any way that she could 
see to open it, the glass front a single thick piece. And 
something in one shadowy niche at the bottom 
glinted like dull copper. 
I'm supposed to push that button, thinking that it 
will open the case and then what? 
She had a sudden vivid image of the ventilation 
holes sealing off and the door locking itself, a death by 
slow suffocation in an airless tomb. The chamber 
could fill with water, or some kind of poisonous gas. 
She looked around the room, frowning, wondering if 
she should try to block the door open or if perhaps 
there was another switch hidden in one of the empty 
suits. . . 
. . . every riddle has more than one answer, Jilly, 
don't forget it. 
Jill grinned suddenly. Why push the button at all? 
She crouched down next to the case and took a firm 
grip on the barrel of her handgun. With a single firm 
tap, the glass cracked, thin lines spidering away from 
the impact. She used the butt of the gun to knock out 
a thick chunk and reached carefully inside. 
She withdrew a hexagonal copper crest, engraved 
with an archaic smiling sun. She smiled back at it, 
pleased with her solution. Apparently some of the 
house's tricks could be worked around, provided she 
ignored a few rules of fair play. All the same, she 
found herself hurrying back to the door, not wanting 
to call it a win until she was clear of the solemn 
chamber. 
Stepping back into the blood-hued corridor, she 
stood for a moment, holding the crest as she weighed 
her options. She could continue to look for whoever 
had closed that door, or head back to the puzzle lock 
and place the crest. As much as she wanted to find her 
team, Barry had been right about needing to get out of 
the mansion. If any of the other S.T.A.R.S. were still 
alive, they'd surely also be looking for an escape. 
Her thoughtful gaze fell across the fetid, broken 
creature that she'd killed, lingering on the slowly 
spreading pool of dark fluids surrounding its scabby 
head and she realized suddenly that she desperately 
wanted to leave the house, to escape its tainted air and 
the pestilent creatures that stalked its cold and dusty 
halls. She wanted out, and as soon as was humanly 
possible. 

Her decision made, Jill hurried back the way she'd 
come, gripping the heavy crest tightly. She'd already 
uncovered two of the pieces that the S.T.A.R.S. 
needed to escape the mansion. She didn't know what 
they'd be escaping to, but anything had to be better 
than what they would leave behind. . . 
 
"Richard!" Rebecca immediately dropped to her 
knees next to the Bravo, feeling his throat for a pulse 
with one trembling hand. 
Chris stared mutely down at the torn body, already 
knowing that she wouldn't find a heartbeat; the gap- 
ing wound on Richard Aiken's right shoulder was 
drying, no fresh blood seeping through the mutilated 
tissue. He was dead. 
He watched Rebecca's slender hand slowly drop 
away from the Bravo's neck and then reach up to close 
his glazed, unseeing eyes. Her shoulders slumped. 
Chris felt sick over their discovery; the communica- 
tions expert had been a positive, sweet guy, and only 
twenty-three years old. . . . 
He looked around the silent room, searching ran- 
domly for some clue as to how Richard had died. The 
room they'd entered just off the second-floor balcony 
was undecorated and empty. Except for Richard, 
there was nothing. 
Frowning, Chris took a few steps toward the room's 
second entrance and crouched down, brushing at the 
dark tile floor. There was a dried crust of blood in the 
shape of a boot heel between Richard's body and 
the plain wooden door ten feet away. He stared at the 
door thoughtfully, tightening his hold on the Beretta. 
Whatever killed him is on the other side, maybe 
waiting for more victims. 
"Chris, take a look at this." 
Rebecca was still kneeling by Richard, her gaze 
fixed on the bloody mass of his torn shoulder. Chris 
joined her, not sure what he was supposed to be 
looking at. The wound was ragged and messy, the 
flesh discolored by trauma. Strange, though, how it 
didn't seem very deep. 
"See those purple lines, radiating out from the cuts? 
And the way the muscle has been punctured, here and 
here?" She pointed out two dark holes about six 
inches apart, each surrounded by skin that had turned 
an infected-looking red. 
Rebecca sat back on her heels, looking up at him. 
"I think he was poisoned. It looks like a snake bite." 
Chris stared at her. "What snake gets that big?" 
She shook her head, standing. "Got me. Maybe it 
was something else. But that wound shouldn't have 

killed him, it would have taken hours for him to bleed 
out. I'm pretty sure he was poisoned." 
Chris regarded her with new respect; she had a good 
eye for details and was handling herself remarkably 
well, considering. 
He searched Richard's body quickly, coming up 
with another full clip and a short-wave radio. He 
handed both to Rebecca, tucking Richard's empty 
Beretta into his waistband. 
He looked at the door again, then back at Rebecca. 
"Whatever killed him might be back there." 
"Then we'll have to be careful," she said. Without 
another word, she walked to the door and stood there, 
waiting for him. 
I've gotta stop thinking of her as a kid. She's outlived 
most of the rest of her team already, she doesn't need 
me to patronize her or tell her to wait behind. 
He stepped up to the door and nodded at her. She 
turned the knob and pushed it open, both of them 
raising their weapons as they edged into a narrow 
hallway. 
Straight ahead were a few wood steps leading to a 
closed door. To their left, an offshoot of the hall, 
another door at the end. There was blood smeared on 
the walls bordering the steps, and Chris was suddenly 
certain that it was Richard's; his killer was behind 
that door. 
He motioned down the offshoot, speaking quietly. 
"You take that room. You run into any trouble, come 
back here and wait. Check back in five minutes either 
way." 
Rebecca nodded and moved down the narrow hall. 
Chris waited until she'd gone into the room before 
climbing the steps, his heart already thudding solidly 
against his ribs. 
The door was locked, but Chris saw that there was a 
tiny shield etched next to keyhole. Rebecca was 
turning out to be more useful than he could have 
possibly imagined. He took out the key she'd given 
him and unlocked the wide door, checking his Beretta 
before moving inside. 
It was a large attic, as plain and unassuming as the 
rest of the mansion was ornate. Wooden support 
beams extended from the floor to the sloping ceiling, 
and other than a few boxes and barrels against the 
walls, it was empty. 
Chris walked farther in, his guard up as he scanned 
for movement. At the other side of the long room was 
a partial wall, maybe four feet by nine, standing 
several feet from the back of the attic. It reminded 
him of a horse stall, and it was the only area that 

wasn't open to view. Chris moved toward it slowly, 
his boots against the wood floor sending hollow 
echoes through the cool air. 
He edged to the wall, training his Beretta over the 
top as he peered down, heart pounding. 
No snake, but there was a jagged hole near the 
floorboards between the two walls, a foot high and a 
couple across and a strange, acrid odor, musky, like 
the smell of some wild animal. Frowning at the scent, 
Chris started to back away and stopped,  
leaning in closer. There was a rounded piece of metal  
next to the hole, like a penny the size of a small fist.  
There was something engraved on it, a crescent shape. 
Chris walked around the side and into the stall, 
keeping a wary eye on the hole as he crouched down 
and picked up the metal piece. It was a six-sided disk 
of copper with a moon on it, a nice bit of craftsmanship. 
Inside the hole, a soft, sliding sound. 
Chris jumped back, targeting the opening as he 
moved. He backed up quickly until his shoulders 
brushed the attic wall, then started to edge away 
and a dark cylinder shot out of the opening, 
lightning fast. It was as big around as a dinner plate 
and it hit the wall inches from his right leg, wood 
crunching from the impact. 
-oh shit that's a SNAKE- 
Chris stumbled away as the giant reptile reared 
back, pulling more of its long, dusky body out of the 
wall. Hissing, it raised up, lifting its head as high as 
Chris's chest and exposing dripping fangs. 
Chris ran halfway across the room and spun, firing 
at the massive, diamond-shaped head. The snake let 
out a strange, hissing cry as a shot tore through one 
side of its gaping mouth, punching a hole through the 
tightly stretched skin. 
It dropped back to the floor and whipped itself 
toward him with a single waving push of its muscular 
body, at least twenty feet long. Chris fired again and a 
chunk of scaly flesh erupted from the snake's back, 
dark blood spewing from the wound. 
With another roaring hiss, the animal reared up in 
front of him, its head only inches away from Chris's 
gun, blood gushing from the hole in its mouth- 
-Eyes. Get the eyes- 
Chris pulled the trigger and the snake fell across 
him, knocking him to the floor, its body thrashing 
wildly. The tail slammed into one of the thick support 
beams hard enough to crack it as Chris struggled to 
free his pinned arms, to at least hurt it worse before 
he died and the cold, heavy body suddenly went limp, 
sagging bonelessly to the floor. 

"Chris!" Rebecca rushed into the room, and 
stopped cold, staring at the monstrous reptile. 
"Woah!" 
His boot found one of the wooden supports and 
with a tremendous shove, Chris managed to wiggle 
out from beneath the thick body. Rebecca reached 
down to help him up, her eyes wide with awe. 
They stared down at the wound that had killed the 
Creature the black, liquid hole where its right eye 
had been, obliterated by a nine-millimeter slug. 
"Are you okay?" She asked softly. 
Chris nodded; a few bruised ribs maybe, but so 
what? He'd literally been inches from certain death, 
and all because he'd stopped to. . . 
He held up the copper crest, having to pry his 
clenched fingers from around the thick metal. He'd 
held onto it throughout the attack without even 
realizing it and looking at it now, he had a gut 
feeling that it was important somehow. . . 
. . . maybe because you were almost snake-food for 
picking it up? 
Rebecca took it from him, tracing a finger over the 
engraved moon. 
"You find anything?" he asked. 
Rebecca shook her head. "Table, couple of 
shelves . . . what's this for, anyway?" 
Chris shrugged, looking back down at the bloody 
hole where the snake's shining eye had been. He 
shuddered involuntarily, thinking of what would have 
happened if he'd missed that final shot. 
"Maybe we'll figure it out somewhere along the 
way," he said quietly. "Come on, let's get out of 
here." 
Rebecca handed the crest back to him and together 
they hurried out of the cold attic. As he closed the 
door behind them, Chris realized suddenly that al- 
though he'd never cared before, he now absolutely 
hated snakes. 
 
Barry walked heavily up the stairs in the main hall, 
the knot of dread in the pit of his stomach tightening 
with each step. He'd been through every room he 
could open in the east wing and had come up empty- 
handed. 
The same horrible images played through his mind 
over and over as he trudged up the steps. Kathy and 
Moira and Poly Anne, terrified and suffering at the 
hands of strangers in their own home. Kathy knew 
the combination to the gun safe in the basement, but 
the chances of her making it down the stairs before 
someone could get in. . . 

Barry reached the first landing and took a deep, 
shaky breath. Kathy wouldn't even think to run for 
the weapons if she heard someone breaking through 
one of the windows or doors. Her first priority would 
be to get to the girls, to make sure they were okay. 
If I don't turn up those crests soon, nothing will be 
okay. 
He hadn't seen a phone or radio anywhere in the 
house. If Wesker couldn't get to that laboratory, how 
would he be able to contact the people at White 
Umbrella and call off the killers? 
Barry reached the door on the upper landing that 
led into the west wing. His only hope was that either 
Jill or Wesker had managed to find the three missing 
pieces. He didn't know where Wesker was (although 
he had no doubts that the rat-bastard would turn up 
soon enough), but Jill would probably still be search- 
ing upstairs. They could split up the rooms she hadn't 
checked and at least rule out the least likely areas. If 
they couldn't uncover any more of the crests, he'd 
have to go back through the east wing and start 
ripping apart furniture. 
He opened the door that led into the red hallway, 
lost in thought and very nearly ran into Chris 
Redfield and Rebecca Chambers as they stepped out 
of the doorway on his right. 
Chris's face lit up with a broad, beaming grin. 
"Barry!" 
The younger man stepped forward and embraced 
him roughly, then backed up, still grinning. "Jesus, 
it's good to see you! I was starting to think that me 
and Rebecca were the last ones alive. Where are Jill 
and Wesker?" 
Barry pasted a smile on as he fumbled for an 
acceptable answer, feeling almost sick with guilt. 
Lying to Jill hadn't been easy, but he'd known Chris 
for years. . . 
-Kathy and the girls, dead- 
"Jill and I came after you, but all the doors in that 
hall were locked and when we got back to the lobby, 
the captain was gone. Since then, we've been looking 
for you two and trying to find a way out." 
Barry smiled more naturally. "It's good to see you, 
too. Both of you." 
At least that much is true. 
"So Wesker just disappeared?" Chris asked. 
Barry nodded, uncomfortable. "Yeah. And we 
found Ken. One of those ghouls got to him." 
Chris sighed. "I saw. Forest and Richard are dead, 
too." 
Barry felt a wave of sadness and swallowed thickly, 

suddenly hating Wesker even more. The people 
Wesker worked for had done this and now they 
wanted to cover it all up, avoiding responsibility for 
their actions.  
And like it or not, I'm going to help them do it. 
Barry took a deep breath and fixed an image of his 
wife and daughters in his mind's eye. "Jill found a 
back door, and we think it could be a way out - ex- 
cept its got this trick lock, like a puzzle, and we have 
to get all the pieces together to open it. There are 
these four metal crests, made out of copper. Jill got 
one already, and we think the rest are hidden through- 
out the mansion. . ." 
He trailed off at Chris's sudden grin as Chris 
reached into his vest. "Something like this?" 
Barry stared at the crest that Chris had produced, 
feeling his heart speed up. "Yeah, that's one of them! 
Where'd you find it?" 
Rebecca spoke up, smiling shyly. "He had to fight a 
big snake for it - a really big snake. I think it may 
have been affected by the accident, though a cross- 
genus virus . . . those are pretty rare." 
Barry reached for the crest as casually as he could 
manage, frowning. "Accident?" 
Chris nodded. "We found some information that 
suggests there's some kind of secret research facility 
here on the estate and that something they were 
working on got loose. A virus." 
"One that can apparently infect mammals and 
reptiles," Rebecca added. "Not just different species, 
different families." 
It's certainly infected mine, Barry thought bleakly. 
He let his frown deepen, feigning thoughtfulness as 
he struggled to come up with an excuse to get away. 
The captain wouldn't approach him unless he was 
alone, and he was desperate to get the copper piece 
into place, to prove that he was still on board, 
cooperating and that he'd convinced the rest of the 
team to help him look. He could feel the seconds 
ticking away, the metal growing warm beneath his 
sweating fingers. 
"We need to get the feds in on this," he said finally, 
"a full investigation, military support, quarantine of 
the area." 
Chris and Rebecca were both nodding, and again 
Barry felt nearly overwhelmed by guilt. God, if only 
they weren't so trusting. 
"But to do that, we have to find all of these crests. 
Jill might've turned up another one by now, maybe 
both of them. . ." 
. . . I can only pray . . . 

"Do you know where she is?" Chris asked. 
Barry nodded, thinking fast. "I'm pretty sure, but 
this place is kind of a maze . . . why don't you wait in 
the main hall while I go get her? That way we can 
organize our search, do a more thorough job." 
He smiled, hoping it looked more convincing than 
it felt. "Though if we don't turn up soon, keep 
looking for more of those pieces. The back door is at 
the end of the west wing corridors, first floor." 
Chris just stared at him for a moment, and Barry 
could see the questions forming in his bright gaze, 
questions that Barry wouldn't be able to answer: Why 
split up at all? What about finding the missing cap- 
tain? How could he be certain that the back door was 
an escape? 
Please, please just do as I say. 
"Okay," Chris said reluctantly. "We'll wait, but if 
she's not where you think she is, come back and get 
us. We stand a better chance of making it through this 
place if we stick together." 
Barry nodded, and before Chris could say anything 
more, he turned and jogged away down the dim hall. 
He'd seen the hesitation in Chris's eyes, heard the 
uncertainty in his voice and with his final words, 
Barry had felt himself wanting desperately to warn his 
friend of Wesker's betrayal. Leaving was the only way 
to keep himself from saying something he might 
regret, something that might get his family killed. 
As soon as he heard the door back to the balcony 
close, he picked up speed, taking the corners at a full 
run. There was a dead zombie near the door that led 
to the stairs, and Barry leaped over it, the stench 
falling away as he ducked through the connecting 
passage. He took the back stairs three at a time as his 
conscience yammered mercilessly away at him, re- 
minding him of his treachery. 
You're a liar, Barry, using your friends the way 
Wesker's using you, playing on their trust. You could've 
told them what was really going on, let them help you 
put a stop to it. 
Barry shook the thoughts away as he reached the 
door to the covered walk, slamming the heavy metal 
aside. He couldn't risk it, wouldn 't - what if Wesker 
had been nearby, had overheard? The captain had 
Barry's family to blackmail him with, but once Chris 
and the others knew the truth, what was to stop 
Wesker from just killing them? If he helped Wesker 
destroy the evidence, the S.T.A.R.S. wouldn't be able 
to prove anything, the captain could just let them all 
walk away. 
Barry reached the diagram next to the back door 

and stopped, staring. Relief flooded through him, cool 
and sweet. Three of the four openings were filled, the 
sun, wind, and star crests in place. It was over. 
He can get to the lab now, call off his people, he 
doesn 't need us anymore! I can go back in and keep the 
team busy while he does whatever he has to do, the 
RPD will show eventually and we can forget this ever 
happened. 
He was so elated that he didn't register the muted 
footsteps on the stone path behind him, didn't realize 
that he wasn't alone anymore until Wesker's smooth 
voice spoke up beside him. 
"Why don't you finish the puzzle, Mr. Burton?" 
Barry jumped, startled. He glared at Wesker, loath- 
ing the smug, bland face behind the sunglasses. 
Wesker smiled, nodding his head at the copper crest 
in Barry's hand. 
"Yeah, right," Barry muttered darkly, and slipped 
the final piece into place. There was a thick metallic 
sound from inside the door, ka-chink 
and Wesker walked past him, pushing the door 
open to reveal a small, well-used tool shed. Barry 
peered inside, saw the exit at the opposite wall. There 
was no diagram set next to it, no more crazy puzzles 
to figure out. 
Kathy and the girls were safe. 
With a low bow, Wesker motioned for Barry to step 
inside the shed, still smiling. 
"Time's short, Barry, and there's still a lot for us to do." 
Barry stared at him, confused. "What do you 
mean? You can get to the lab now." 
"Well, there's been a slight change of plans. See, it 
turns out that I need to find something else, and I 
have an idea of where it might be, but there are some 
dangers involved . . . and you've done such a good 
job so far, I want you to come along." 
Wesker's smile transformed into a shark-like grin, a 
cold, pitiless reminder of what was at stake. 
"In fact, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to 
insist on it." 
After a long, terrible moment, Barry nodded helplessly. 

T

HIRTEEN

 

My dearest Alma, 
I sit here trying to think of where to begin, of how to 
explain in a few simple words all that's happened in my life 
since we last spoke, and already I fail. I hope this letter finds 
you well and whole, and that you will forgive the tangents of 
my pen; this isn't easy for me. Even as I write, I can feel the 
simplest of concepts slipping away, lost to feelings of despair 

and confusion, but I have to tell you what's in my heart 
before I can rest. Be patient, and accept that what I tell you 
is the truth. 
The entire story would take hours for me to tell you, and 
time is short, so accept these things as fact: last month there 
was an accident in the lab and the virus we were studying 
escaped. All my colleagues who were infected are dead or 
dying, and the nature of the disease is such that those still 
living have lost their senses. This virus robs its victims of 
their humanity, forcing them in their sickness to seek out 
and destroy life. Even as I write these words, I can hear 
them, pressing against my locked door like mindless, 
hungry animals, crying out like lost souls. 
There aren't words true enough, deep enough to describe 
the sorrow and shame that I feel knowing that I had a hand 
in their creation. I believe that they feel nothing now, no 
fear or pain, but that they can't experience the horror of 
what they've become doesn't free me of my terrible burden. 
I am, in part, responsible for this nightmare that surrounds 
me. 
In spite of the guilt that is burned into my very being, 
that will haunt my every breath, I might have tried to 
survive, if only to see you again. But my best efforts only 
delayed the inevitable; I am infected, and there is no cure 
for what will follow - except to end my life before I lose the 
only thing that separates me from them. My love for you. 
Please understand. Please know that I'm sorry. 
Martin Crackhorn 
Jill sighed, laying the crumpled paper gently on the 
desk. The creatures were victims of their own re- 
search. It seemed she'd had the right idea about what 
had happened in the mansion, though reading the 
heartfelt letter put a serious damper on any pride she 
might have taken from her deduction skills. After 
placing the sun crest, she'd decided that the upstairs 
office merited a closer look and with a little digging, 
she'd found the final scrawled testament of Crack- 
horn, tucked in a drawer. 
Crackhorn, Martin Crackhorn - that was one of the 
names on Trent's list. . .  
Jill frowned, walking slowly back to the office door. 
For some reason, Trent wanted the S.T.A.R.S. to 
figure out what had happened at the mansion before 
anyone else did, but with as much as he obviously 
knew about it, why not just tell them outright? And 
what did he stand to gain by telling them anything at 
all? 
She stepped through the office's small foyer and 
back out into the hall, still frowning. Barry had been 
acting strange before, and she needed to find out why. 
Maybe she could get a straight answer if she just asked 

him outright. . . 
. . .or maybe not. Either way, it'll tell me something. 
Jill stopped by the back stairs, taking a deep 
breath and realized that something was different. 
She looked around uncertainly, trying to figure out 
what it was her senses were telling her. 
It's warmer. Just a little, but it's definitely warmer. 
And the air isn't quite as stale. . . 
Like someone had opened a window. Or maybe a 
door. 
Jill turned and jogged down the stairs, suddenly 
anxious to check the puzzle lock. Reaching the bot- 
tom of the steps, she saw that the door connecting one 
hall to the next was standing open. She could hear 
crickets singing faintly, feel the fresh night air wafting 
toward her through the frigid mustiness of the house. 
She hurried to the darker corridor and hooked a 
right, trying not to get her hopes up. Another sharp 
right and she could see the door that led to the 
covered walkway standing open. 
Maybe that's all it is, it doesn't mean the puzzle's 
solved.  
Jill broke into a run, feeling the clean warmth of 
summer air against her skin as she rounded the corner 
in the stone path and let out a short, triumphant laugh as she saw 
the four placed crests next to the open door. A warm 
breeze was flowing through the room that the puzzle 
had unlocked, a small storage shed for gardening 
tools. The metal door on the wall opposite was 
standing open, and Jill could see moonlight playing 
across a brick wall just past the rusted hinges. 
Barry had been right, the door led outside. They'd 
be able to get help now, find a safe route through the 
woods or at least signal. 
But if Barry found the missing pieces, why didn't he 
come looking for me? 
Jill's grin faded as she stepped into the shed, 
absently taking in the dusty boxes and barrels that 
lined the gray stone walls. Barry had known where she 
was, had suggested himself that she take the second 
floor of the west wing. . . 
So maybe it wasn 't Barry who opened the door. 
True, it could've been Chris or Wesker or one of the 
Bravos. If that was the case, she should probably go 
back in and look for Barry. 
Or investigate a little first, make sure it's worth the 
effort. 
It was a bit of a rationalization, but she had to 
admit to herself that the thought of returning to the 
mansion with a possible escape in front of her wasn't 
all that enticing. She unholstered her Beretta and 

walked toward the outer door, her decision made. 
The first thing she noticed was the sound of rushing 
water over the soft forest noises that filled the cooling 
air, like a waterfall. The second and third were the 
bodies of the two dogs that lay across the irregular 
stone path, shot to death. 
Pretty safe bet that one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this 
way. . . 
Jill edged out into a high-walled courtyard, low 
hedges set into brick planters on either side. Dark 
clouds hung oppressively low overhead. Across the 
open space was a barred iron gate just past an island 
of shrubs; to her left, a straight path overshadowed by 
the ten-foot-high brick walls that bordered it. The 
gentle waterfall sound seemed to come from that 
direction, though the path ended abruptly in a metal 
gate a few feet high. 
Stairs going down maybe? 
Jill hesitated, looked back at the arched, rusty gate 
in front of her and then at the curled bodies of the 
mutant dogs. They were both closer to the gate than 
the walkway, and assuming they'd been killed while 
attacking, the shooter would have been headed in that 
direction. 
There was a sudden sound of water splashing 
wildly, making the decision for her. Jill turned and 
ran down the moonlit walk, hoping to catch a glimpse 
of whatever was making the noise. 
She reached the end of the stone path and leaned 
over the gate, then drew back a little, surprised by 
the sudden drop off. There were no stairs, the gate 
opened to a tiny platform elevator and a huge, open 
courtyard, twenty feet below. 
The splashing was off to the right, and Jill looked 
down and across the wide yard just in time to see a 
shadowy figure walk through the waterfall she'd 
heard, disappearing behind the curtain of water that 
cascaded down the west wall. 
What the hell? 
She stared at the small waterfall, blinking, not sure 
if her eyes were playing tricks on her. The splashing 
had stopped as soon as the person disappeared, and 
she was fairly certain that she wasn't hearing things- 
which meant that the rushing water concealed a secret 
passage. 
Great, that's just what this place needs. Lord knows I 
didn't get enough of that inside. 
The controls for the one-man lift were on a metal 
bar next to the rusting gate, the platform itself down 
in the courtyard. Jill toggled the power switch, but 
nothing happened. She'd have to get down another 

way, wasting time while the mysterious splasher got 
farther away. 
Unless. . . 
Jill looked down the narrow elevator shaft, an inset 
square only three feet across and open on the side 
facing the yard. Coming up would be a bitch, but 
descending? Cake. She could crouch her way down in 
a minute or less, using her back and legs to support 
her weight. 
As she unstrapped the shotgun from her back in 
preparation for the climb, a disturbing thought oc- 
curred to her - if the person who'd gone through the 
waterfall was one of the S.T.A.R.S., how had they 
known that the passage was even there? 
Good question, and not one she wanted to linger 
over. Holding the shotgun tightly, Jill pushed the gate 
open and carefully started down the shaft. 
 
They'd given Barry a full fifteen minutes before 
heading through the winding halls of the west wing 
and finding the open back door.  
They stood therenow, looking at the slab of copper  
and its four engraved crests. 
Chris stared at the crescent moon that Barry had 
taken, feeling confused and more than a little worried. 
Barry was one of the most honest, straightforward guys 
that he had ever known. If he said that he was going to 
look for Jill and then come back for them, then that's 
what he meant to do. 
But he didn't come back. And if he ran into trouble, 
how did the piece I gave him end up here? 
He didn't like any of the explanations his mind was 
giving him to work with. Someone could have taken it 
from him, he could've placed it himself and then been 
injured somehow ... the possibilities seemed end- 
less, and none of them good. 
Sighing, he turned away from the diagram and 
looked at Rebecca. "Whatever happened to Barry, we 
should go ahead. This may be the only way off the 
estate." 
Rebecca smiled a little. "Fine by me. It just feels 
good to get out of there, you know?" 
"Yeah, no kidding," he said, with feeling. He hadn't 
even realized how accustomed he'd grown to the cold, 
oppressive atmosphere of the house until they'd left 
it. The difference was truly amazing. 
They walked through the tidy storage room and 
stopped at the back door, both of them breathing 
deeply. Rebecca checked her Beretta for about the 
hundredth time since they'd left the main hall, chew- 
ing at her lower lip nervously. Chris could see how 

tightly wound she was and tried to think if there was 
anything she needed to know, anything that would 
help her if they were forced into a combat situation. 
S.T.A.R.S. training covered all the basics, but shoot- 
ing at a video screen with a toy gun was a far cry from 
the real thing. 
He grinned suddenly, remembering the words of 
wisdom he'd gotten on his first operation, a stand-off 
with a small group of whacked-out survivalists in 
upstate New York. He'd been terrified, and trying 
desperately not to show it. The captain for the mis- 
sion had been a tough-as-nails explosives expert, an 
extremely short woman named Kaylor. She'd pulled 
him aside just before they went in, looked him up and 
down, and given him the single best piece of advice 
he'd ever received. 
"Son," she'd said, "no matter what happens when 
the shooting starts, try not to wet your pants." 
It had surprised him out of his nervousness, the 
statement so totally weird that he'd literally been 
forced to let go of the worst of his fear to make room 
for it. 
"What are you grinning about?" 
Chris shook his head, the smile fading. Somehow, 
he didn't think it would work on Rebecca and the 
dangers they faced didn't shoot back. "Long story. 
Come on, let's go." 
They moved out into the calm night air, crickets 
and cicadas buzzing sleepily in the surrounding 
woods. They were in a kind of courtyard, high brick 
walls on either side, an offshoot walkway to their left. 
Chris could hear rushing water nearby and the 
mournful cry of a dog or coyote in the distance, a 
lonely, faraway sound. 
Speaking of dogs . . . 
There were a couple of them sprawled out across 
the stones, soft moonlight glistening against their wet, 
sinewy bodies. Chris edged up to one of them and 
crouched down, touching its flank. He quickly pulled 
his hand back, scowling; the mutant dog was sticky 
and warm, like it had been sheathed in a thick layer of 
mucous. 
He stood up, wiping his hand on his pants. "Hasn't 
been dead long," he said quietly. "Less than an hour, 
anyway." 
There was a rusted iron gate just past some hedges 
in front of them. Chris nodded at Rebecca and as they 
walked toward it, the sound of rushing water in- 
creased to a dull roar. 
Chris pushed at the gate and it swung open on 
violently squealing hinges, revealing a huge, cut stone 

reservoir, easily the size of a couple of swimming 
pools put together. Deep shadows draped and hung at 
every side, caused by the seemingly solid walls of 
murky green trees and lush vegetation that threatened 
to break through the bordering rails. 
They moved forward, stopping at the edge of the 
massive pool. It was apparently in the slow process of 
being drained, the turbulent noise caused by the 
narrow flow of water through a raised gate on the east 
side. There wasn't a complete path around the reser- 
voir, but Chris saw that there was a walkway bisecting 
the pool itself, about five feet below water level. There 
were bolted ladders at both sides, and the path had 
obviously been submerged until quite recently, the 
stones dark with dripping algae. 
Chris studied the unusual setup for a moment, 
wondering how anyone got across when it wasn't 
being drained. Another mystery to add to the growing 
list. 
Without speaking, they climbed down and hurried 
across, boots squelching against the slimy stones, a 
clammy humidity enveloping them. Chris quickly 
scaled the second ladder, reaching down to help 
Rebecca up. 
The heavily shaded path was littered with branches 
and pine needles and appeared to border the east end 
of the reservoir, passing over the open floodgate. They 
started toward the forced waterfall and had only 
gotten a few feet when it started to rain. 
Plop. Plop, plop. 
Chris frowned, an inner voice informing him coolly 
that he shouldn't be able to hear raindrops over the 
roar of the draining water. He looked up 
and saw a twisted branch fall from the stretching 
foliage hanging over the rail, a branch that hit the 
stones and slid smoothly away - 
- that's not a branch - 
- and there were dozens of them already on the 
ground, twisting across the dark stones, hissing and 
writhing as they fell from the trees overhead. 
He and Rebecca were surrounded by snakes. 
"Oh, shit!" 
Startled, Rebecca turned to look at Chris and felt 
cold terror shoot through her, her heart squeezed in 
its icy grip as she took in the path behind him. The 
ground had come to life, black shapes coiling toward 
their feet and dropping from above like living rain. 
Rebecca started to raise her gun, realizing numbly 
that there were too many even as Chris roughly 
grabbed her arm. 

"Run!" 
They stumbled forward, Rebecca crying out invol- 
untarily as a thick, writhing body fell across her 
shoulder, a touch of cool scales against her arm as it 
slid heavily off and hit the stones. 
The path zig-zagged and they ran through the 
shifting shadows, heels crunching down on rubbery, 
moving flesh, throwing them off balance. Snakes 
darted forward to strike at their passing boots as they 
ran over a steel grate, black, foaming water thunder- 
ing below, the sound of their boots hitting metal lost 
to the liquid roar. 
Ahead of them, the stones were clearer, but the 
path also dropped off sharply, a small elevator plat- 
form marking its end. There was no place left to go. 
They crowded on to the tiny platform and Rebecca 
snatched at the controls, her breath coming in pan- 
icked gasps. Chris turned and fired repeatedly, the 
shots blasting over the crash of water as Rebecca 
found the operating button and slammed it down. 
The platform shuddered and started to descend, 
slipping down past rock walls toward a massive, 
empty courtyard below. Rebecca turned, raising the 
Beretta to help Chris and felt her jaw drop,  
her throat locking at the gruesome scene.  
There had to be hundreds of them, 
the path almost completely hidden by the slithering 
creatures, hissing and squirming in an alien frenzy as 
they struck wildly at each other. By the time she 
managed to unfreeze, the loathsome sight had risen 
past eye level and was gone. 
The ride seemed to last forever, both of them 
staring up at the edge of the path they'd left behind, 
tensely, breathlessly waiting for the bodies to start 
falling. When the lift was within a few feet of the 
bottom, they both jumped off, stumbling quickly 
away from the wall. 
They both leaned against the cool rock, gasping. 
Rebecca took in the courtyard they'd escaped to in 
between shuddering breaths, letting the sound of the 
splashing waterfall soothe her nerves. It was a huge, 
open space made out of brick and stone, the colors 
washed out and hazy in the frail light. The water from 
the reservoir above tumbled down into two stone 
pools nearby, and there was a single gate across from 
them. 
And no snakes. 
She took a final deep breath and blew it out, then 
turned to Chris. 
"Were you bit?" 
He shook his head. "You?" 

"No," she said. "Though if it's all the same to you, 
I'd rather not go back that way. I'm more of a cat- 
person, really." 
Chris stared at her for a moment and then grinned, 
pushing away from the wall. "Funny, I would've 
figured you for lab rats. I ..." 
Beep-beep. 
The radio! 
Rebecca grabbed at the unit hooked to her belt, the 
snakes suddenly forgotten. It was the sound she'd 
been hoping to hear ever since they'd found Richard. 
They were being hailed, maybe by searchers. 
She thumbed the receiver and held the radio up so 
they could both hear. Static crackled through the 
tinny speaker along with the soft whine of a wavering 
signal. 
". . . this is Brad!. . . Alpha team . . . read? If. . . 
can hear this..." 
His voice disappeared in a burst of static. Rebecca 
hit the transmit button and spoke quickly. 
"Brad? Brad, come in!" 
The signal was gone. They both listened for a 
moment longer, but nothing else came through. 
"He must have gotten out of range," Chris said. He 
sighed, walking farther out into the open yard and 
gazing up at the dark, overcast sky. 
Rebecca clipped the silent radio back to her belt, 
still feeling more hopeful than she had all night. The 
pilot was out there somewhere, circling around and 
looking for them. Now that they were clear of the 
mansion, they'd be able to hear him signal. 
Assuming he comes back. 
Rebecca ignored the thought and walked over to 
join Chris, who had found another tiny elevator 
platform, tucked in the corner across from the water- 
fall. A quick check showed it to be without power. 
Chris turned toward the gate, slapping a fresh clip 
into his Beretta. "Shall we see what's behind door 
number one?" 
It was a rhetorical question. Unless they wanted to 
go back through the snakes, it was their only option. 
Just the same, Rebecca smiled and nodded, wanting 
to make sure he knew she was ready and hoping 
desperately that if anything else happened, she would 
be. 

 

F

OURTEEN

 

JILL STOOD AT THE EDGE OF A YAWNING, 
open pit in the dank tunnel, staring helplessly at the 

door on the other side. The pit was too wide to safely 
jump and there was no way to climb down, at least none 
that she could see. She'd have to go back and try the 
door by the ladder. 
Her frustrated sigh turned into a shiver. The damp 
chill emanating from the stone walls would have been 
bad enough without her being dripping wet. 
Great secret passage. To use it, you have to catch 
pneumonia. 
A glint of metal caught her gaze as she turned, feet 
squelching in her boots. She peered down at it, 
brushing a wet strand of hair out of her eyes. It was a 
small iron plate set into the stone, a six-sided hole 
about the size of a quarter at the center. She looked 
back at the door thoughtfully. 
Maybe it works as a bridge, or lowers stairs . . . ? 
It didn't matter, since she didn't have whatever tool 
it required, it was as good as a dead end. Besides, it 
was unlikely that whoever she'd seen walking through 
the waterfall had managed to get across. 
Jill walked back through the twisting passage to- 
ward the entrance to the tunnel, still in awe of what 
she'd found behind the curtain of water. It appeared 
that there was a whole network of tunnels running 
beneath the estate. The walls were rough and uneven, 
chunks of sandy limestone protruding at odd 
angles-but the sheer amount of work that had gone 
into creating the underground path was mind- 
boggling. 
She reached the metal door next to the ladder, 
having to make a conscious effort not to let her teeth 
chatter as a cold draft swept down from the courtyard 
above. The sound of the waterfall was strangely 
muted. The steady, echoing rhythm of water dripping 
to the rock floor was much louder, giving the tunnels a 
somewhat medieval feel. . . 
She pulled the door open and froze, feeling a rush 
of mixed emotions as Barry Burton whirled around to 
face her, revolver in hand. Surprise won. 
"Barry?" 
He quickly lowered his weapon, looking as shocked 
as she felt and just about as wet, too. His T-shirt 
clung to his broad shoulders, his short hair plastered 
to his skull. 
"Jill! How did you get down here?" 
"Same way you did, apparently. But how did you 
know?" 
He held up his hand, shushing her. "Listen." 
They stood in tense silence, Jill looking up and 
down the stone corridor and failing to hear whatever 
Barry had heard. There were metal doors at either 

end, cast in shadow by the dim utility lights overhead. 
"I thought I heard something," he said finally. 
"Voices ..." 
Before she could ask any questions, he turned and 
faced her, smiling uneasily. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't 
wait for you, but I heard somebody walking out in the 
garden and had to take a look. I found this place by 
accident, kind of tripped and fell in ... anyway. I'm 
glad you're here. Let's check around, see what we can 
dig up." 
Jill nodded, but decided to keep a close eye on 
Barry for awhile. Maybe she was paranoid, but in 
spite of his words, he didn't seem all that happy to see 
her. . . 
Watch and wait, her mind whispered. For now, 
there was nothing else she could do. 
Barry led them toward the door to the right, hold- 
ing his Colt up. He pulled the handle, revealing 
another gloomy tunnel. 
A few steps in to the right was another metal door 
and across from it, the passage veered sharply into 
almost complete darkness. Barry motioned at the 
door and Jill nodded. He pushed it open and the two 
of them moved in to another silent corridor. 
Jill sighed inwardly as she studied the bare rocky 
walls, wishing that she had a piece of chalk with her. 
The tunnel they were in now looked pretty much like 
all the rest of them, turning left up ahead. She already 
felt lost, and hoped that there weren't too many more 
twists and turns. 
"Hello? Who's there!" A deep, familiar voice 
shouted from somewhere ahead of them, the words 
echoing through the passage. 
"Enrico?" Jill called out. 
"Jill? Is that you?" 
Excited, Jill ran the last few steps to the corner and 
around, Barry right behind her. The Bravo team 
leader was still alive, had somehow ended up down 
here. 
Jill rounded the next corner and saw him sitting 
against the wall, the tunnel widening out and ending 
in a shadowy alcove. 
"Hold it! Stop right there!" 
She froze, staring at the Beretta he had pointed at 
her. He was injured, blood seeping from his leg and 
puddling on the floor. 
"Are you with anyone, Jill?" His dark eyes were 
narrowed with suspicion, the black bore of his semi- 
automatic unwavering. 
"Barry's here, too - Enrico, what happened? 
What's this about?" 

As Barry stepped out from behind the corner, 
Enrico stared at them both for a long moment, his 
gaze darting back and forth nervously and then he 
sagged, lowering his gun as he fell back against the 
stones. Barry and Jill hurried over, crouching down 
next to the wounded Bravo. 
"I'm sorry," he said weakly. "I had to make 
sure..." 
It was as though defending himself had taken his 
last bit of strength. Jill took his hand gently, alarmed 
at how pale he was. Blood oozed from his thigh, his 
pants soaked with it. 
"This whole thing was a set-up," he breathed, 
turning his watering gaze toward her. "I got lost, I 
climbed the fence, saw the tunnels . . . found the 
paper . . . Umbrella knew, all along..." 
Barry looked stricken, his face almost as white as 
Enrico's. "Hang on, Rico. We'll get you out of here, 
you just have lie still." 
Enrico shook his head, still looking at Jill. "There's 
a traitor in the S.T.A.R.S.," he whispered. "He told 
me. . ." 
Bam! Bam! 
Enrico's body jumped as two holes suddenly ap- 
peared in his chest, blood pulsing out of them in 
violent spurts. Through the resounding echo of the 
shots, running footsteps clattered away down the 
corridor behind them. 
Barry launched to his feet and sprinted around the 
corner as Jill helplessly squeezed Enrico's twitching 
hand, her heart pounding and sick. He slumped over, 
dead before he touched the cold stone floor. 
Her mind flooded with questions as Barry's pursu- 
ing footsteps faded away, silence settling once again 
over the deep shadows. What paper had the Bravo 
found? When Enrico had said "traitor" she'd imme- 
diately thought of Barry, acting so strangely, but 
he'd been right beside her when the shots had been 
fired. 
So who did this? Who was Trent talking about? Who 
did Enrico see? 
Feeling lost and alone, Jill held his cooling hand 
and waited for Barry to come back. 
 
Rebecca was going through an old trunk pushed 
against one wall of the room they'd entered, shuffling 
through stacks of papers and frowning while Chris 
checked out the rest of the room. A single, rumpled 
cot, a desk, and a towering, ancient bookshelf were 
the only other pieces of furniture. After the cold, alien 
splendor of the mansion, Chris was absurdly grateful 

to be in simpler surroundings. 
They'd come to a house at the end of the long, 
winding path from the courtyard, much smaller and 
infinitely less intimidating than the mansion. The hall 
they'd stepped into was plain, undecorated wood, as 
were the two small bedrooms they'd discovered just 
off the silent corridor. Chris figured they'd found a 
bunkhouse for some of the mansion's employees. 
He had noticed the thick, unmarked dust in the 
hallway on their way in with a sinking resignation, 
realizing that none of the other S.T.A.R.S. had made 
it out of the main house. With no way for him and 
Rebecca to get back, all they could do was try to find 
the back door and go for help. Chris didn't like it, but 
there weren't any other options. 
After a brief perusal of the shelves, Chris walked to 
the battered wooden desk and pulled at the top 
drawer; it was locked. He bent down and felt along the 
bottom of the drawer, grinning as his fingers touched 
a thick piece of tape. 
Don't people ever watch movies? The key's always 
stuck under the drawer. 
He peeled the tape away and came up with a tiny 
silver key. Still grinning, he unlocked the drawer and 
pulled it open. 
There was a deck of playing cards, a few pens and 
pencils, gum wrappers, a crumpled pack of ciga- 
rettes - junk, mostly, the kind of stuff that always 
seemed to accumulate in desk drawers. . . 
Bingo! 
Chris picked up the key ring by its leather tag, 
pleased with himself. If finding the exit was this easy, 
they'd be on their way back to Raccoon in no time. 
"Looks like we just got a break," he said softly, 
holding up the keys. The leather tag had the word 
"Alias" burned into one side, the number "345" 
written on the back in smudged ball-point pen. Chris 
didn't know the significance of the number, but he 
remembered the nickname from the diary he'd found 
in the mansion. 
Thank you, Mr. Alias. Assuming the keys were for 
the bunkhouse, they were that much closer to getting 
off the estate. 
Rebecca was still sitting by the trunk, surrounded 
by papers, envelopes, even a few grainy photos that 
she'd pulled out. She seemed totally absorbed in 
whatever she was reading, and when Chris walked 
over to join her, she looked up at him with eyes 
clouded by worry. 
"You find something?" 
Rebecca held up the piece of paper she was reading. 

"A couple of things. Listen to this: 'Four days since 
the accident and the plant at Point 42 is still growing 
and mutating at an incredible rate. . .'" 
She skipped ahead, skimming the page with one 
finger as she spoke. "It calls this thing Plant 42, and 
says its root is in the basement. . . here. 'Shortly after 
the accident, one of the infected members of the 
research team became violent and broke the water 
tank in the basement, flooding the entire section. We 
think some trace chemicals used in the T-virus tests 
contaminated the water and contributed to Plant 42's 
radical mutations. A number of shoots have already 
been traced to different parts of the building, but the 
main plant now hangs from the ceiling in the large 
conference room on the first floor. . . “ 
" 'We've determined that Plant 42 has become 
sensitive to movement and is now carnivorous. In 
close proximity to humans, it uses tentacular, prehen- 
sile vines to entrap its prey while leechlike adap- 
tations latch onto exposed skin and draw fatal 
quantities of blood; several members of the staff have 
already fallen victim to this.' It's dated May twenty-first,  
signed Henry Sarton." 
Chris shook his head, wondering again how some- 
one could invent a virus like the one they had come 
across. It seemed to infect everything it touched with 
madness, transforming its carrier into a deadly carni- 
vore, hungry for blood. 
God, now a man-eating plant. . . 
Chris shuddered, suddenly twice as glad that they'd 
be leaving soon. 
"So it infects plants, too," he said. "When we 
report this, we'll have to. . ." 
"No, that's not it," she said. She handed him a 
photo, her expression grim. 
It was a blurry snapshot of a middle-aged man 
wearing a lab coat. He was standing stiffly in front of a 
plain wooden door, and Chris realized that it was the 
very door they'd come through not ten minutes ago, 
the front entrance to the bunkhouse. 
He flipped the picture over, squinting at the tiny 
script on the back. "H. Sarton, January '98, Point 42." 
He stared at Rebecca, finally understanding her 
fearful gaze. They were standing in Point 42. The 
carnivorous plant was here. 
 
Wesker stood in the darkness of the unlit tunnel, his 
irritation growing as he listened to Barry stumble 
through the echoing corridors. Jill wouldn't wait 
forever, and the raging Mr. Burton couldn't seem to 
grasp that Enrico's killer had simply slid into the 

shadows just around the corner, the most obvious 
place there was. 
Come on, come on . . . 
Since they'd left the house, he'd finally started to 
feel like things were going in his favor. He'd remem- 
bered the underground room near the entrance to the 
labs, and was almost certain that the wolf medal 
would be there. And the tunnels were clear. He had 
expected the 121s to be out, but apparently no one 
had messed with the passage mechanisms since the 
accident. They'd split up to search for the lever that 
worked the passages and it had been in plain sight, 
propped up next to the very mechanism that it 
controlled. 
Everything would have been perfect, except god- 
damned Enrico Marini had wandered along, happen- 
ing across a very important paper that Wesker had 
accidentally dropped - his orders, straight from the 
head of White Umbrella. And then to complicate 
matters, Jill had blundered into the tunnels before 
Wesker could finish taking care of the problem. 
Wesker sighed inwardly. If it wasn't one thing, it 
was another. In truth, this whole aifair had been a 
massive headache from the beginning. At least the 
underground security hadn't been activated - though 
he'd had no way of knowing that until they'd reached 
the tunnels, and having dragged Barry along as insur- 
ance, he now had to deal with the consequences. If the 
money wasn't so good. 
He grinned. Who was he kidding? The money was 
great. 
After what felt like years, Barry huffed into the dark 
room, blindly waving his revolver around. Wesker 
tensed, waiting for him to walk past the generator's 
alcove. This part could be tricky - Barry and Enrico 
had been close. 
As Barry stormed past the small chamber, Wesker 
stepped out behind him and jammed the muzzle of 
his Beretta into Barry's lower back, hard. At the same 
time, he started talking, low and fast. 
"I know you want to kill me, Barry, but I want you 
to think about what you're doing. I die, your family 
dies. And right now, it looks like Jill may have to die, 
too, but you can stop it. You can put a stop to all the 
killing." 
Barry had stopped moving as soon as the gun 
touched him, but Wesker could hear the barely con- 
tained rage in his voice, the pure, driving hatred. 
"You killed Enrico," he snarled. 
Wesker pushed the gun deeper into his back. "Yes. 
But I didn't want to. Enrico found some information 

he shouldn't have, he knew too much. And if he'd told 
Jill what he knew about Umbrella, I'd have had to kill 
her, too." 
"You're going to kill her anyway. You're going to 
kill all of us." 
Wesker sighed, allowing a pleading note to creep 
into his voice. "That's not true! Don't you get it –  
- I just want to get to the laboratory and get rid of the 
evidence before anyone finds it! Once that material is 
destroyed, there's no reason for anyone else to get 
hurt. We can all just . . . walk away." 
Barry was silent, and Wesker could tell that he 
wanted to believe him, wanted desperately to believe 
that things could be that simple. Wesker let him waver 
for a moment before pressing on. 
"All I want you to do is keep Jill busy, keep her and 
anyone else you run into away from the labs, at least 
for a little while. You'll be saving her life and I 
swear to you that as soon as I get what I need, you and 
your family will never hear from me again." 
He waited. And when Barry finally spoke, Wesker 
knew he had him. 
"Where are the labs?" 
Good boy! 
Wesker lowered the gun, keeping his expression 
blank just in case Barry had good night vision. He 
pulled a folded paper out of his vest and slipped it 
into Barry's hand, a map from the tunnels to the first 
basement level. 
"If for some reason you can't keep her away, at least 
go with her. There are a lot of doors with locks on the 
outside down there; worse comes to worst, you can 
lock her up until it's over. I mean it, Barry, no one 
else has to get hurt. It's all up to you." 
Wesker stepped back quickly, reaching for the lever 
with the six-sided tip that he'd left next to the 
generator. He watched Barry for a few seconds longer, 
saw the sag in the big man's shoulders, the submissive 
hang of his head. Satisfied, Wesker turned and walked 
out of the room. On the very slight chance that any of 
the S.T.A.R.S. made it to the lab, Mr. Burton would 
ensure that there wouldn't be any more trouble. 
He hurried back through the entrance tunnel, si- 
lently congratulating himself on getting things back 
under control as he headed toward the first passage 
mechanism. He'd have to move fast from here on out; 
there were a few things he'd neglected to mention to 
Barry - like the experimental security detachment 
that would be released into the tunnels once he turned 
that lever for the first time. . . 
Sorry, Barry. Slipped my mind. 

It would be interesting to see how his team fared 
with the 121s, the Hunters. Watching the S.T.A.R.S. 
pit their strength and agility against the creatures 
would be quite a show and sadly, one that he'd have 
to miss. 
It was too bad, really. The Hunters had been caged 
for a long time; they'd be very, very hungry. 

F

IFTEEN

 

BARRY HAD BEEN GONE FOR TOO LONG. 
Jill had no idea how extensive the tunnels were, but 
from what she'd seen they all looked alike. Barry 
could be lost, trying to find his way back. Or he could 
have found the murderer, and without any backup ... 
He might not come back at all. 
In any case, staying put wasn't going to help any- 
thing. She stood up, taking a last look at the Bravo's 
pale face and silently wishing him peace before walk- 
ing away. 
What did he find out that got him killed? Who was it? 
Enrico had only managed to get out that the traitor 
was a he, but that didn't exactly narrow things down; 
except for herself and the rookie, the Raccoon 
S.T.A.R.S. were all male. She could rule out Chris, 
since he'd been convinced from the start that there 
was something weird going on and now Barry, 
who'd been with her when Marini died. Brad Vickers 
simply wasn't the type to do anything dangerous, and 
Joseph and Kenneth were dead - which leaves  
Richard Aiken, Forest Speyer, and Albert Wesker. 
None of them seemed likely, but she had to at least 
consider the possibility. Enrico was dead. And she no 
longer doubted that Umbrella had one of the 
S.T.A.R.S. in their pocket. 
When she got to the door, she quickly leaned down 
and tightened her damp boot laces, preparing herself. 
Whoever had shot the Bravo could have just as easily 
taken her and Barry out - and since he hadn't, she 
could only figure that he didn't want to kill anyone 
else, and wouldn't be looking for more targets. As- 
suming that he was still in the underground system, 
she'd have to be as quiet as possible if she wanted to 
find him; the tunnels were perfect sound conductors, 
amplifying even the tiniest sound. 
She eased open the metal door, listening, and then 
edged out into the dim tunnel, staying close to the 
wall. In front of her, the corridor was unlit. She opted 
to head back the way she'd come instead; the darkness 
was a perfect spot for an ambush. She didn't want to 
find out she was wrong about the killer's intentions by 

taking a bullet. 
A low, grinding rumble reverberated through the 
heavy stone walls, a sound like something big moving. 
Jill instinctively used the sound as cover, taking 
several sliding steps forward and reaching the next 
metal door just as the rumbling stopped. She slipped 
back out into the tunnel where she'd run into Barry, 
gently closing the door behind her. 
What the hell was that? It sounded like an entire 
wall moving! 
She shuddered, remembering the descending ceil- 
ing of that room in the house. Maybe the tunnels were 
rigged, too; she needed to watch every step. The idea 
of being crunched to death by some bizarre mecha- 
nism underground. . . 
Like the one next to that pit, with the hexagonal hole? 
She nodded slowly, deciding that she needed to go 
take another look at those doors she couldn't get to 
before. Maybe the killer had the tool it required, and 
the noise she'd heard had come from him operating it. 
She could be wrong, but there was no harm in 
checking. 
And at least I won't get lost. 
She reached for the door that would lead her back 
and stopped, her head cocked to catch the strange 
sound coming from the tunnel behind her. It was  
a rusty hinge? Some kind of a bird, maybe? It was loud, 
whatever it was. . . 
Thump. Thump. Thump. 
That sound she knew. Footsteps, headed in her 
direction, and it was either Barry or someone built 
like him. They were heavy, plodding, but too far 
apart, too . . . deliberate. 
Get out of here. Now! 
Jill grabbed at the metal latch and ran into the next 
tunnel, no longer caring how much noise she made. 
Although she sometimes misread them, her instincts 
were never wrong and they were telling her that 
whoever or whatever was making that sound, she 
didn't want to be there when it showed up. 
She took several running steps down the stone 
corridor, away from the ladder that led back to the 
courtyard and then forced herself to slow down, 
taking a deep breath. She couldn't just go sprinting 
ahead, either; there were other dangers than the one 
she'd left behind. 
Behind her, the door opened. 
Jill turned, raising her Beretta and stared in hor- 
ror at the thing standing there. It was huge, shaped 
like a man, but the resemblance stopped there. Na- 
ked but sexless, its entire muscular body was covered 

with a pebbled, amphibious skin, shaded a dark 
green. It was hunched over so that its impossibly long 
arms almost touched the floor, both its hands and feet 
tipped with thick, brutal claws. Tiny, light-colored 
eyes peered out at her from a flat reptilian skull. 
It turned its strange gaze toward her, dropped its 
wide - hinged jaw and let out a tremendous, high- 
pitched screech like nothing she'd ever heard before, 
the sound echoing around her, filling her with mortal 
terror. 
Jill fired, three shots that smacked into the crea- 
ture's chest and sent it reeling backwards. It stum- 
bled, fell against the tunnel wall and with another terrible shriek  
it sprang at her, pushing off the stones with powerful legs,  
its claws outstretched and grasping. 
She fired again and again as it flew toward her, the 
bullets tearing into its puckered flesh, ribbons of dark 
blood coiling away and it landed in a heaving crouch  
only a few feet in front of her,  
screaming, one massive arm snaking 
out to swipe at her legs. A musky, moldy animal smell 
washed over her, a smell like dark places and feral 
rage. 
 -Jesus why won't it die- 
Jill trained the Beretta on the back of its skull and 
emptied the clip. Even as the green flesh splattered 
away and bone splintered, she continued to fire, the 
hot slugs ripping into the pulpy, pinkish mass of its 
brain. 
Click. Click. Click. 
No more bullets. She lowered the weapon, her 
entire body shaking. It was over, the creature was 
dead, but it had taken almost an entire clip, fifteen 
nine-millimeter rounds, the last seven or eight at close 
range. . . 
Still staring at the fallen monster, she ejected the 
empty magazine and loaded a fresh clip before hol- 
stering the Beretta. She reached back and unstrapped 
the Remington, taking comfort in the solid, balanced 
weight of the shotgun. 
What the hell were you people working on out here? 
It seemed that the Umbrella researchers had invented 
more than just a virus - something just as deadly, but 
with claws. . . 
And there could be more of them. 
She'd never had a more horrifying thought. Hold- 
ing the Remington close, Jill turned and ran. 
 
Chris and Rebecca walked down a long, wooden 
hallway, warily glancing up with every other step. 
There was what looked like dried, dead ivy poking out 

of every crack and crevice where the walls met the 
ceiling, a bone-colored growth that scaled across the 
planks like a fungus. It looked harmless, but after 
what Rebecca had read to him about Plant 42, Chris 
kept himself ready to move quickly. 
After going through the rest of the papers in the 
trunk, Rebecca had come up with a report on some 
kind of an herbicide that could apparently be mixed 
in Point 42, called V-Jolt. She'd brought it along, 
though Chris doubted it would be useful. All he 
wanted was to find the exit, and if they could avoid 
the killer plant, so much the better. 
The front hall had been clear of the growth, though 
Chris wasn't prepared to call it secured. Besides the 
two bedrooms by the front door, there had been a rec 
room that had been distinctly creepy. Chris had 
looked inside and immediately felt his internal alarms 
going off, though he hadn't known why; there'd been 
no danger that he could see, just a bar and a couple of 
tables. In spite of the seeming calm, he had closed the 
door quickly and they'd moved on. His gut feeling 
was enough of a reason to leave it alone. 
They stopped in front of the only door in the long, 
meandering stretch of hallway, both of them still 
glancing nervously at the scaling ivy near the ceiling. 
Chris pushed at the knob, and the door swung open. 
Warm, humid air flooded out of the shadowy room, 
thick and tropical, but with a nasty undertone, like 
the taint of spoiled fruit. Chris instinctively pushed 
Rebecca behind him as he saw the walls of the 
chamber. They were completely covered in the same 
kind of strange, straggling growth that was in the 
hall, but here, the scaling ivy was lush and bloated, a 
bilious verdant green. 
There was a faint whispering coming from inside 
the room, a subtle sense of movement and Chris 
realized that it was coming from the sickly plant 
matter itself, the walls quivering in a weird optical 
illusion as the draping tendrils crept and grew. 
Rebecca started to step past him and Chris pushed 
her back. "What, are you nuts? I thought you said this 
thing sucks blood!" 
She shook her head, staring at the whispering walls. 
"That's not Plant 42, at least not the part the report 
talked about. Plant 42 is gonna be a lot bigger, and a 
lot more mobile. I never did much with phytobiology, 
but according to that study, we'll be looking for an 
angiosperm with motile foliage." 
She smiled a quick, nervous smile. "Sorry. Think of a 
great big plant bulb with ten to twenty foot vines 
waving around it." 

Chris grimaced. "Great. Thanks for putting my 
mind at rest." 
They edged into the large room, careful not to walk 
too closely to the hissing walls. There were three 
doors besides the one they came through: one directly 
across from the entrance and the other two facing 
each other to their left, where the room opened up. 
Chris led them toward the door opposite the entrance, 
figuring it as the most likely to lead out of the 
bunkhouse. 
The door was unlocked, and Chris started to push it 
open. . . 
BAM! 
The door slammed shut, causing them both to jump 
back, weapons raised. A series of heavy, sliding 
thumps followed, like someone on the other side was 
kicking at the walls - except the sounds were every- 
where, above and below the door's sturdy frame, 
beating against every corner of the sealed room. 
"Lots of vines, you said?" Chris asked. 
Rebecca nodded. "I think we just found Plant 42." 
They listened for a moment, Chris thinking about 
the kind of strength and weight it would take to slam 
the door so solidly. 
No kidding, bigger and more mobile . . . and maybe 
blocking the only exit to this place. Terrific. 
They backed away, turning into the open area and 
looking at the other two doors. The one on their right 
had the number "002" above it. Chris fished out the 
keys he'd found and flipped through them, finding 
one with a matching number. 
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, Rebecca 
behind him. There was a smaller door to the left that 
opened to a bathroom, quiet and dusty. The room 
itself was another bedroom, a bunk, a desk, a couple 
of shelves. Nothing of interest. 
There was another series of dull thumps from 
behind the far wall and they quickly moved back into 
the humid, whispering room, Chris fighting a growing 
certainty that they were going to have to deal with the 
plant if they wanted to get out. 
Not necessarily, there could still be another way. . .  
The way things had been going so far, he didn't 
think so. From the shuffling zombies lurking in the 
main house to the run through the courtyard, snakes 
dropping from the trees, every part of the Spencer 
estate seemed to be designed to keep them from 
leaving. 
Chris shook the negative thoughts aside as they 
approached the shadowy chamber's final door, but 
they came rushing back at the sight of the small green 

keypad set next to the frame. He rattled the knob but 
there was no give. It was another dead end. 
"Security lock," he said, sighing. "No way to get in 
without the code." 
Rebecca frowned down at the pattern of tiny red 
lights set above the numbered buttons. "We could just 
try numbers until we run across the right combina- 
tion." 
Chris shook his head. "You know what our chances 
are of just stumbling across the right..." 
He stopped, staring at her, then fumbled the key 
ring out of his pocket. 
"Try three-four-five," he said, watching eagerly as 
Rebecca dutifully punched in the number. 
Come on, Mr. Alias, don't fail us now. 
The pattern of red lights flashed, then blinked out, 
one by one. As the last tiny light faded, there was a 
click from inside the door. 
Chris grinned, pushing the door open and felt his 
hope dwindle as he glanced around the tiny room. 
Dusty shelves filled with tiny glass bottles and a rust 
stained sink; not the exit he'd expected. 
No, that would have been too easy, God knows we 
can't have that... 
Rebecca walked quickly to one of the shelves and 
looked over the glass bottles, mumbling to herself. 
"Hyoscyamine, anhydride, dieldrin . . ." 
She turned back to him, grinning widely. "Chris, we 
can kill the plant! That V-Jolt, the phytotoxin - I can 
make it here. If we can get to the basement, find the 
plant's root." 
Chris smiled back. "Then we can destroy it 
without having to fight the damned thing! Rebecca, 
you're brilliant. How long do you need?" 
"Ten, fifteen minutes." 
"You got it. Stay here, I'll be back as soon as I can." 
Rebecca was already pulling down bottles as Chris 
closed the door and jogged back toward the corridor, 
past the whispering walls of shadowy green. 
They were going to beat this place, and once they 
got out, Umbrella was going down hard. 
 
Barry was standing over Enrico's cold body, 
Wesker's map crumpled in one hand. Jill had been 
gone when he'd returned and rather than look for 
her, he'd found himself unable to move, to even tear 
his gaze away from the corpse of his murdered friend. 
It's my fault. If I hadn't helped Wesker get out of the 
house, you'd still be alive... 
Barry stared miserably at Enrico's face, so filled 
with guilt and shame that he didn't know what to do 

anymore. He knew he had to find Jill, keep her from 
getting to Wesker, keep his family from being hurt, 
but still, he couldn't seem to force himself to walk 
away. What he wanted more than anything was to be 
able to explain himself to Enrico, make him under- 
stand how things had come to be the way they were. 
He's got Kathy and the babies, Rico . . . what else 
could I have done? What can I do but follow his orders? 
The Bravo stared back at him with glazed, unseeing 
eyes. No accusation, no acceptance, no nothing. For- 
ever. Even if Barry continued to help the captain and 
everything else turned out the way it was supposed to, 
Rico Marini would still be dead and Barry didn't 
know how he was going to live with the knowledge 
that he was responsible... 
Shots echoed through the tunnels. A lot of them. 
Jill! 
Barry's head snapped around. He reached for his 
weapon automatically, the sounds spurring him to 
action as anger flushed through his system. There 
could only be one explanation; Wesker had found Jill. 
Barry turned and ran, sick at the thought of another 
S.T.A.R.S. member dead by Wesker's treacherous 
hand, furious with himself for believing the captain's 
lies. 
The door in front of him slammed open and Barry 
stopped dead in his tracks, all thoughts of Wesker and 
Jill and Enrico wiped away by the sight of the crouch- 
ing thing in front of him. His mind couldn't grasp 
what he saw, his stunned gaze feeding him bits of 
information that didn't make sense.  
Green skin. Piercing, orange-white eyes. Talons. 
It screamed, a horrible, squealing cry and Barry 
didn't think anymore. He squeezed the trigger and the 
shriek turned into a bubbling, choking gasp as the 
heavy round tore into its throat and knocked it down. 
The thing flailed its limbs wildly as blood spurted 
from the smoking hole. Barry heard several sharp 
cracks like breaking bones, saw more blood pour from 
its fists as long, thick claws snapped off against rock. 
Barry stared in mute astonishment as the creature 
continued to spasm violently, burbling through the 
ragged hole in its throat as if still trying to scream. 
The shot should have blown its head off its neck, but 
it was another full minute before it died, its frenzied 
thrashings gradually weakening as blood continued to 
pump out at a tremendous rate. Finally, it stopped 
moving and from the dark, noxious lake it had 
created, Barry realized that it had bled to death, 
conscious until the end. 

What did I just kill? What the fu... 
From the tunnel outside, another shrieking howl 
resounded through the clammy air and was joined 
by a second, then third. The animal cries rose up, 
furious and unnatural, the screams of creatures that 
shouldn't exist. 
Barry dug into his hip pack with shaking hands and 
pulled out more rounds for the Colt, praying to God 
that he had enough and that those shots he'd heard 
before hadn't been Jill's last stand. 

S

IXTEEN

 

IT COULD HAVE ONCE BEEN A SPIDER, IF 
spiders ever got to be the size of cattle. From the thick 
layer of white web that covered the room, floor to 
ceiling, it couldn't have been anything else. 
Jill stared down at the curled, bristling legs of the 
abomination, her skin crawling. The creature that had 
attacked her by the courtyard entrance had been 
terrifying, but so alien that she hadn't been able to 
relate it to anything. Spiders, on the other hand . . . 
she already hated them, hated their dark, bustling 
bodies and skittering legs. This one had been the 
mother of all of them and even dead, it frightened 
her. 
Hasn't been dead long, though . . .  
She forced herself to look at it, at the slick puddles 
of greenish ichor that dripped from the holes in its 
rounded, hairy body. It had been shot several times 
and from the noxious ooze that seeped from the 
wounds, she guessed that it had still been alive and 
crawling not twenty minutes ago, maybe less. 
She shuddered and stepped away toward the double 
metal doors that led out of the webbed chamber. 
Whispering streams of the sticky stuff clung to her 
boots, making it a struggle to move. She took careful, 
deliberate steps, determined not to fall. The thought 
of being covered in spider web, having it clinging to 
her entire body . . . she shuddered again, swallowing 
thickly. 
Think about something else, anything. 
At least she knew she was on the right track, and 
close behind whoever had triggered the tunnel mecha- 
nism. Neat trick, that. When she'd reached the area 
where the pit had been, she'd thought that maybe 
she'd gotten lost after all. The gaping hole had been 
gone, smooth stone in its place. Looking up, she'd 
seen the ragged edges of the pit suspended overhead; 
the entire center section of the tunnel had been 
flipped over, turned like a giant wheel by some 

miracle of engineering. 
The doors had led to another straight, empty tun- 
nel. A giant boulder stood at one end, and past that, 
the room she was about to leave. 
Jill grabbed the handle of one of the doors and 
pushed it open, stumbling out into yet another 
gloomy passage. She leaned back against the door and 
breathed deeply, barely resisting the urge to brush 
wildly at her clothes. 
I can blow away zombies and monsters with the best 
of 'em; show me a spider and I lose my freaking 
mind. 
The short, empty tunnel ran left to right in front of 
her, a door at either end, but the door to her left was 
set into the same wall as the one she'd just exited, 
leading back toward the courtyard. Jill opted for the 
one on the right, hoping that her sense of direction 
was still intact. 
The metal door creaked open and she stepped in, 
feeling the change in the air immediately. The tunnel 
split in front of her. To the right, a thickening of 
shadow where the rock walls opened into another 
corridor. But to her left was a small elevator shaft like 
the ones in the courtyard. A warm, delicious wind 
swept down and over her, the sweet air like a forgot- 
ten dream. 
Jill grinned and started for the shaft, seeing that the 
lift's platform had been taken up. Chances were good 
that she was still on the trail of Enrico's killer. . . 
. . . but maybe not. Maybe he went the other way, 
and you're about to lose him. 
Jill hesitated, gazing wistfully at the small shaft- 
and then turned around, sighing. She had to at least 
take a look. 
She walked into the stone corridor that stretched in 
front of her, the temperature immediately dropping 
back to the now familiar unpleasant chill. The tunnel 
extended several feet to her right and dead ended. To 
her left, a massive, rounded boulder like the one she'd 
seen before marked the other end, a good hundred 
feet away. And there was something small laying in 
front of it, something blue. . . 
Frowning, Jill walked toward the giant rock, trying 
to make out the blue object. Halfway down the dim 
tunnel was an offshoot to the left, and she recognized 
the metal plate next to it as the same kind of mecha- 
nism that had moved the pit. 
She stepped into the small offshoot, examining the 
worn stones at its opening. There was a small door to 
her right, and Jill realized that the passage and room 
could be hidden by way of the mechanism, the walls 

turned to block the entrance. 
Jeez, it must've taken them years to set all this up. 
And to think I was impressed with the house. . . 
She opened the door and looked inside. A mid- 
sized square room of rough stone, a statue of a bird on 
a pedestal the only decoration. There was no other 
exit, and Jill felt a sudden rush of relief as the 
implications sank in. She could leave the under- 
ground tunnels; the killer had to have left already. 
Smiling, she stepped back out into the corridor and 
started toward the giant rock, still curious about the 
blue thing. As she got closer, she saw that it was a 
book, bound in blue-dyed leather. It had been thrown 
carelessly against the base of the stone, laying face 
down and open. She slung the Remington across her 
back and crouched down to pick it up. 
It was a book-box. Her father had told her about 
them, though she'd never actually seen one. There 
was a cut-away section of pages behind the cover 
where valuables could be hidden, though this one was 
empty. 
She flipped it closed, tracing the gold-leaf letters of 
the title, Eagle of East, Wolf of West, as she started 
back toward the elevator. Didn't sound like much of a 
thriller, though it was nicely bound. 
Snick. 
Jill froze as the stone beneath her left foot sank 
down a tiny bit-and she realized at the same instant 
that the entire tunnel gently sloped away from where 
she was standing. 
-oh no- 
Behind her, a deep, thundering sound of rock 
grating against rock. 
Dropping the book, Jill sprinted for cover, arms 
and legs pumping as the rumbling grew louder, the 
tripped boulder picking up momentum. The dark 
opening of the offshoot seemed miles away - 
-won 't make it, gonna die- 
- and she could almost feel the tons of stone 
bearing down on her, wanted desperately to look but 
knew that the split-second difference would kill her. 
In a final, desperate burst of speed she dove for the 
opening, crashing to the floor and jerking her legs 
in as the massive rock rolled past, missing her by 
inches. Even as she drew in her next gasping breath, 
the boulder hit the end of the tunnel with an explo- 
sive, bone-jarring crunch that shook the underground 
passage. 
For a moment, it was all she could do to huddle 
against the cold floor and not throw up. When that 
passed, she slowly got to her feet and dusted herself 

off. The heels of her hands were abraded and both her 
knees bruised from the running dive, but compared to 
being smashed flat by a big rock, she thought she had 
definitely made the right choice. 
Jill unstrapped the Remington and headed for the 
elevator shaft, very much looking forward to leaving 
the underground behind and keeping her fingers 
crossed that whatever came next, it wouldn't be cold. 
And that there wouldn't be any spiders. 
 
The basement was flooded, all right. 
Chris stood at the top of a short ramp that led to the 
basement doors, staring down at his own unsmiling 
face reflected off of the shimmering water. It looked 
cold. And deep. 
After he'd left Rebecca, he'd continued down the 
hall and found room 003 at the end, the ladder to the 
basement level tucked discreetly behind a bookcase in 
the neatly kept bedroom. He'd descended into a 
chilled concrete corridor with buzzing fluorescent 
lights overhead, a dramatic change from the plain 
wood and simple style of the bunkhouse above. 
At least I found the basement. 
It appeared that killing Plant 42 was their only 
option for escape after all. He'd seen no other exit 
from the bunkhouse, which meant that it had to be 
past the plant's room or else there was no back 
door, a thought that left him distinctly unsettled. It 
didn't seem possible, but then, neither did a carnivo- 
rous plant. 
And you won't find out until you get this over with. 
Chris sighed, and stepped into the water. It was 
cold, and had an unpleasant chemical smell. He 
waded down to the door, the water sliding up over his 
knees and finally stopping at mid-thigh, sloshing 
gently. Shivering, he pushed the door open and 
moved inside. 
The basement was dominated by a giant glass-fronted  
tank in the center of the room that extended 
floor to ceiling, a large, jagged hole toward the bottom 
right-hand side. Chris wasn't that good at judging 
volume, but to fill the whole area with water, he 
figured that the tank had to have held several thou- 
sands of gallons. 
What the hell were they studying that they needed 
that much? Tidal waves? 
It didn't matter; he was cold, and he wanted to find 
what he needed to find and get back to dry land. He 
started off toward the left, slowly, straining against 
the push and pull of the gently lapping waves. 
It was totally unreal, wading through a well-lit 

concrete room, though he supposed it was no stranger 
than anything else he'd experienced since the Alpha 
'copter had set down. Everything about the Spencer 
estate had a dream-like feel to it, as if it existed in its 
own reality far removed from the rest of the 
world's . . . 
Try nightmare-like. Killer plants, giant snakes, the 
walking dead-all that's missing is a flying saucer, 
maybe a dinosaur. 
He heard a soft sloshing behind him and glanced 
over his shoulder... 
...to see a thick, triangular fin rise up from the 
water twenty feet away and slide toward him, a 
wavering gray shadow beneath. 
Panic shot through him, an all-encompassing panic 
that seared away rational thought. He took a giant, 
running step and realized that he couldn't run as he plunged 
face first into the cold, chemical water and came up 
gasping, spluttering tainted liquid from his nose and 
mouth, hoping to God Rebecca was right about the 
virus having burned itself out. 
He whipped his head around, eyes burning, search- 
ing for the fin and saw that it had halved the distance between 
them. He could see it now - a shark, its rippling, 
distorted body sliding easily through the water, ten or 
twelve feet long, its broad tail lashing it forward - the 
black, soulless eyes set above its pointed grin. 
-wet bullets misfire- 
Chris stumbled away backwards, knowing that he 
didn't stand a chance of outrunning it. Wheeling his 
arms for balance, he sloshed heavily through the 
dragging water, turning himself sideways and manag- 
ing a few more steps before the shark was on top of 
him... 
...and he leaped to the side, dodging the animal 
and slapping the water as violently as he could, 
churning it into foaming waves. The shark slid past 
him, its smooth, heavy body brushing against his leg. 
As soon as it was past, Chris stumbled after it, 
splashing wildly to keep up as he turned the corner in 
the flooded room. If he could stay close enough, it 
wouldn't be able to turn, to get at him - except  
that in seconds, the shark would have the 
room to maneuver. He could see two doors ahead on 
the left but the giant fish was already leaving him 
behind, heading toward the next corner to turn 
around and come back for him. 
Chris took a deep breath and plunged into the 
water, knowing it was crazy but that he didn't have a 
better chance. He stroked desperately toward the first 
door, kicking off against the cement floor to propel 

himself forward in great, bounding leaps. 
He hit the door just as the shark was turning up 
ahead and grabbed for the handle, choking - 
- and it was locked. 
Shit, shit, shit!!!  
Chris jammed his hand into his wet vest and came 
up with Alias's keys, fumbling through them as the fin 
glided closer, the wide, pointed grin opening. 
He shoved a key into the lock, the last key on the 
ring that he hadn't found the room for, and slammed 
his shoulder against the door at the same time, the 
shark now only a few feet away. 
The door flew open and Chris stumbled in, falling 
and kicking frantically. His boot connected solidly 
with the shark's fleshy snout, deflecting it from the 
opening. In a flash, he was on his feet. He threw his 
weight into the door and in a slap of water, it was 
closed. 
He sagged against the door, wiping at his stinging 
eyes with the back of his hand. The lapping water 
settled gently into smaller and smaller ripples as he 
caught his breath and his vision cleared. For now, he 
was safe. 
He unholstered his Beretta and ejected the dripping 
magazine, wondering how the hell he was going to 
make it back upstairs. Looking around the small 
room, he saw nothing he could use as a weapon. One 
wall was lined with buttons and switches, and he 
trudged over to look at them, drawn to a blinking red 
light in the far corner. 
Looks like I found a control room . . . aces. Maybe I 
can turn off the lights and get the shark to go to sleep. 
There was a lever set next to the flashing light and 
Chris stared down at the faded tape beneath it, feeling 
a numb disbelief as he read the printed letters. 
Emergency Drainage System. 
You've gotta be kidding me! Why didn't anyone pull 
this thing the second the tank broke? 
The answer occurred to him even as he thought it. 
The people who worked here were scientists; no way 
they were going to turn down the opportunity to study 
their precious Plant 42, sucking up water from the 
man-made lake. 
Chris grabbed the lever and pushed it down. There 
was a sliding, metallic noise outside the door-and 
immediately, the water level started to drop. Within a 
minute, the last of it had flowed out from under the 
door and a gurgling, liquid gasp came from the 
direction of the broken tank. 
He walked back to the door, opening it carefully 
and heard the frantic, wet thumps of a very big fish 

trying to swim through air. 
Chris grinned, thinking that he should probably feel 
pity for the helpless creature and hoping instead 
that it died a long, agonizing death. 
"Bite me," he whispered. 
 
Wesker had shot four of the shuffling, gasping 
Umbrella workers on his way to the computer room 
on level three. He hadn't recognized any of them, 
though he was pretty sure that the second one he'd 
taken out had been Steve Keller, one of the guys from 
Special Research. Steve always wore penny loafers, 
and the pallid, dried-up husk that had reached for 
him by the stairs had been wearing Steve's brand. 
It appeared that the effects of the viral spill had 
been harsher in the labs . . . less messy, but no less 
disquieting. The creatures that roamed the halls out- 
side seemed to have been totally dehydrated, their 
limbs withered and stringy, their eyes like shriveled 
grapes. Wesker had dodged several of them, but the 
ones he'd been forced to put down had scarcely bled 
at all. 
He sat at the computer in the cool, sterile room and 
waited for the system to boot up, feeling truly on top 
of things for the first time all day. He'd had earlier 
moments, of course. The way he'd handled Barry, 
finding the wolf medal in the tunnels - even shooting 
Ellen Smith in the face had given him a momentary 
sense of accomplishment, a feeling that he was in 
control of what was happening. But so much had gone 
wrong along the way that he hadn't had time to enjoy 
any of his successes. 
But now I'm here. If the S.T.A.R.S. aren't already 
dead, they will be soon and assuming I don't suffer 
some massive lapse of skill, I'll be out of here within 
half an hour, mission complete. 
There were still dangers, but Wesker could handle 
them. The mesh monkeys - the Ma2s - were un- 
doubtedly loose in the power room, but they were 
easy enough to get past, as long as you didn't stop 
running; he should know, he'd helped come up with 
the design. And there was the big man, the Tyrant, 
waiting one level down in his glass shell, sleeping the 
sweet, dreamless sleep of the damned. . .  
. . . From which he'll surely never wake. What a 
waste. So much power, crossed off as a failure by the 
boys at White. . .  
A gentle musical tone informed him that the system 
was ready. Wesker pulled a notebook out of his vest 
and opened it to the list of codes, though he already 
knew them; John Howe had set the system up months 

ago, using his name and the name of his girlfriend, 
Ada, as access keys. 
Wesker tapped out the first of the passwords that 
would allow him to unlock the laboratory doors, 
feeling a sudden, vague wistfulness for the excitement 
of the day. It would be over so soon and there would 
be no one to witness his achievements, to share his 
fond memories after the fact. 
Now that he thought about it, it was a shame that 
none of the S.T.A.R.S. would be joining him; the only 
thing better than a grand finale was a grand finale with 
an audience. . .  

S

EVENTEEN

 

JILL HAD TAKEN THE ELEVATOR INTO WHAT 
seemed to be another part of the garden or courtyard, 
although the area had been isolated, surrounded by 
trees; she'd guessed as much from the few overgrown 
potted plants and the welcome sounds of the forest 
beyond the low metal railing. There had been nothing 
to see but a rusting door set into a nondescript, 
overgrown wall, welded shut and a large, open well, 
like a stone wading pool. Inside had been a short, 
spiral staircase leading down to another small ele- 
vator. 
Which I took, but now where the hell am I? 
The room that the elevator had led to was unlike 
any other part of the estate she'd seen. It lacked the 
strange, fetid charm of the mansion, or the dripping 
gloom of the underground. It was as though she'd 
walked out of a gothic horror story and into a military 
complex, a utilitarian's bleak paradise. 
She was standing in a large, steel-reinforced con- 
crete room, the walls painted a muddy industrial 
orange. Metal ducts and overhead pipes lined the 
upper walls, and the room was rather aptly titled 
"XD-R Bl," painted across the concrete in black, 
several feet high. Any sense she'd had of where she 
was in relation to the rest of the estate was totally 
gone. 
Although it's as cold as everywhere else, at least I 
know I'm still on the grounds. . .  
There was a heavy metal door on one side of the 
room, firmly locked. The sign to the left of it stated 
that it was only to be opened in case of a first-class 
emergency. She figured that the "Bl" on the wall 
stood for "Basement level one," her theory confirmed 
by the bolted ladder that led down through a narrow 
shaft in the concrete; where there was Bl, B2 natu- 
rally followed. 

And considering the alternative, it looks like that's 
where I'm headed. My other option is to go back 
through the underground tunnels. 
She peered down the ladder shaft, only able to see a 
square of concrete at the bottom. Sighing, she held on 
to the Remington and started down. 
As soon as she hit the last rung, she turned anxious- 
Ly and faced a much smaller room, as bland and 
industrial as the first. Inset fluorescent lights on the 
ceiling, a gray metal door, concrete walls and floor. 
She walked through quickly, starting to feel hopeful 
that there were no more creatures or traps. So far, the 
basement levels had offered nothing more dangerous 
than a lack of decorum. . .  
She opened the door and her hope faded as the dry, 
dusty smell of long-dead flesh hit her. She stepped out 
onto a cement walkway that led over a flight of 
descending stairs, a metal railing circling the path.  
At the top of the steps was a crumpled zombie, so 
emaciated and shriveled that it appeared mummified. 
She held the shotgun ready and walked slowly 
toward the stairs, noting that there was a hall branch- 
ing off to the left where the railing stopped. She 
darted a quick look around the corner and saw that it 
was clear. Still watching the desiccated corpse care- 
fully, she edged down the short corridor and stopped 
at the door on her left. The sign next to the door read 
"Visual Data Room," and the door itself was un- 
locked. 
It opened up into a still, gray room with a long 
meeting table in the center, a slide projector set up in 
front of a portable screen at the far end. There was a 
phone on a small stand pushed up against the right 
wall, and Jill hurried over, knowing that it was too 
much to hope for but having to check just the same. 
It wasn't a phone at all, but an intercom system that 
didn't seem to work. Sighing, she stepped past an 
ornamental pillar and walked around the table, glanc- 
ing at the empty slide projector. She let her gaze 
wander, looking for anything of interest 
and it stopped on a flat, featureless square of 
metal set into the wall, about the size of a sheet of 
paper. Jill stepped over to take a closer look. 
There was a flat bar at the top. She touched it 
lightly, and the panel slid down into the wall, reveal- 
ing a large red button. She looked around the quiet 
room, trying to imagine what the trap would be and 
then realized that there wouldn't be a trap at all. 
The mansion, the tunnels - all of it was rigged to 
keep people from getting here, to these basement levels. 
They're way too efficiently dull to be anything but 

where the real work gets done. 
She knew instinctively that her logic was sound. 
This was a board room, a place for drinking bad 
coffee and sitting through meetings with colleagues; 
nothing was going to jump out at her if she pushed the 
button. 
Jill pushed it. And behind her, the ornamental 
pillar slid to one side with a smooth, mechanical hum. 
Behind the pillar were several shelves, stacked with 
files and something that glittered in the soft gray 
light of the room. 
She hurried over and picked up a metal key, the top 
of it imprinted with a tiny lightning bolt. Slipping it 
into her pocket, she flipped through a few of the files. 
They were all stamped with the Umbrella logo, and 
though most of them were too thick and ponderous to 
spend time sorting through, the title on one of the 
reports told her what she needed to know, what she'd 
already suspected. 
Umbrella / Bioweapons Report / Research and Development. 
Nodding slowly, Jill put the file back. She'd finally 
found the real research facilities, and she knew that 
the S.T.A.R.S. traitor would be somewhere in these 
rooms. She was going to have to be very careful. 
With a final glance around her, Jill decided to go see 
if she could find the lock that the key belonged to. It 
was time to place the last few pieces of the puzzle that 
Umbrella had set up and that the S.T.A.R.S. had 
sacrificed themselves trying to solve. 
 
The twisted, gnarled root of Plant 42 took up a 
large corner of the basement room, the bulk of it 
hanging down in slender, fleshy tendrils that almost 
touched the floor. A few of the tiny, worm-like threads 
squirmed blindly around each other, twisting slowly 
back and forth as if looking for the water supply that 
Chris had drained. 
"God, that's disgusting," Rebecca said. 
Chris nodded agreement. Besides the control room 
he'd escaped into, there had only been two other 
chambers in the basement. One of them had been 
stacked with boxes of cartridges for all kinds of 
weapons and although most of them had been use- 
lessly wet, he'd found most of a box of nine- 
millimeter rounds on a high shelf, saving them both 
from running out of ammunition. 
The other room had been plain, containing only a 
wood table, a bench and the massive, creeping root 
of the carnivorous plant that lived upstairs. 
"Yeah," Chris said. "So how do we do this?" 
Rebecca held up a small bottle of purplish fluid and 

swirled it gently, still staring at the moving tendrils. 
"Well, you stand back, and don't breathe too deeply. 
This stuffs got a couple of toxins in it that neither of 
us want to be ingesting, and it'll turn gaseous once it 
hits the infected cells." 
Chris nodded. "How will we know if it's working?" 
Rebecca grinned. "If the V-Jolt report is on the 
mark, we'll know. Watch." 
She uncapped the bottle and stepped closer to the 
twisted root, then upended the glass vial, dousing 
the snaking tendrils with the watery fluid. 
Immediately, a billow of reddish smoke plumed up 
from the root as Rebecca emptied the bottle and 
stepped quickly away. There was a hissing, crackling 
sound like wet wood thrown atop a blazing fire and 
within seconds, the feebly twisting fibers started to 
break, pieces of them snapping off and flaking away. 
The knotted thickness at the center started to tighten 
and shrink, pulling into itself. 
Chris watched in amazement as the giant, terrible 
root suddenly shriveled up into a dripping ball of 
mush no bigger than a child's ball and hung there, 
dead. The entire process had taken about fifteen 
seconds. 
Rebecca nodded toward the door and both of them 
stepped out into the drying basement, Chris shaking 
his head. 
"God, what'd you put in there?" 
"Trust me, you don't want to know. You ready to 
get out of here?" 
Chris grinned. "Let's do it." 
They both jogged toward the basement doors, hur- 
rying out into the cold corridor and back toward the 
ladder that led upstairs. Chris was already going over 
escape plans for when they left the bunkhouse. It 
really would depend on where the exit led. If they 
ended up in the woods, he was thinking that they 
should head toward the closest road and light a fire, 
then wait for help to come. . . 
. . . though maybe we'll get lucky, run across the 
damned parking lot for this place. We can hotwire a car 
and drive out - and get Irons to do something useful 
for a change, like call in reinforcements. 
They reached the wood corridor and headed for the 
plant room, both of them taking long, easy strides 
past the hissing green walls and finally stopping at the 
room that held Plant 42. 
Breathing deeply, Chris nodded to Rebecca. They 
both unholstered their weapons and Chris pushed the 
door open, eager to see what lay beyond the experi- 
mental plant. 

They stepped into a huge, open room, the smell of 
rotting vegetation thick in the damp air. Whatever it 
had looked like before, the monster that had been 
Plant 42 was now a massive, steaming lake of dark 
purple goo in the center of the room. Bloated dead 
vines the size of fire hoses draped limply across the 
floor, extending out from the livid, gelid mass. 
Chris scanned for the next door, saw a plain fireplace  
against one wall, a broken chair in a corner 
and a single door that apparently led back into 
the bedroom he'd searched earlier. A hidden passage 
that he'd missed and that led to the very room in 
which they stood. 
Must have been behind the bookcase. . . 
There was no way out. Killing the plant had been a 
waste of time, it hadn't been blocking anything. 
Rebecca looked as disappointed as he felt, her 
shoulders slumped and expression grim as she studied 
the bare walls. 
Ah, I'm sorry, Rebecca. 
They both walked slowly around the room, Chris 
staring at the dead plant and trying to decide what to 
do next. Rebecca walked to the fireplace and crouched 
down next to it, poking at the blackened ash. 
He wouldn't drag her back to the mansion, neither 
of them were up for it. Even with the extra ammo, 
there were too many snakes. They could wait in the 
courtyard for Brad to fly by again, hope he got into 
range. 
"Chris, I've found something." 
He turned and saw her pull a couple of pieces of 
paper out of the ashes, the edges scorched but both 
sheets otherwise intact. He walked across the room 
and leaned down to read over her shoulder and felt 
his heart start pounding as the first words sank in. 
SECURITY PROTOCOLS 
BASEMENT LEVEL ONE: 
Heliport/For executive use only. This restriction may not 
apply in the event of an emergency. Unauthorized persons 
entering the heliport will be shot on sight. 
Elevator/The elevator stops during emergencies. 
BASEMENT LEVEL TWO: 
Visual Data Room/For use by the Special Research 
Division only. All other access to the Visual Data Room must 
be cleared with Keith Arving, Room Manager. 
BASEMENT LEVEL THREE: 
Prison/Sanitation Division controls the use of the prison. 
At least one Consultant Researcher (E. Smith, S. Ross, 
A. Wesker) must be present if viral use is authorized. 
Power Room/Access limited to Headquarters Supervisors. 
This restriction may not apply to Consultant Researchers 

with special authorization. 
BASEMENT LEVEL FOUR: 
Regarding the progress of "Tyrant" after use of 
T-Virus . . . 
The rest of the paper was burned, the words lost. 
"A. Wesker," Chris said softly. "Captain Albert 
goddamn Wesker..." 
Barry had said that Wesker disappeared right after 
the Alphas had made it to the house. And it was 
Wesker who led us here in the first place when the dogs 
attacked. Cool, competent, unreadable Wesker, work- 
ing for Umbrella. . . 
Rebecca flipped to the second page and Chris 
leaned in, studying the neatly typed labels beneath the 
drawn boxes and lines. 
MANSION. COURTYARD. GUARDHOUSE. UNDERGROUND. 
LABORATORIES. 
There was even a compass drawn next to the sketch 
of the mansion, to show them what they'd missed – a secret  
entrance to the underground hidden behind the waterfall. 
Rebecca stood up, eyes wide and uncertain. "Cap- 
tain Wesker is involved with all this?" 
Chris nodded slowly. "And if he's still here, he's 
down in those labs, maybe with the rest of the team. If 
Umbrella sent him here, God only knows what he's 
up to." 
They had to find him, had to warn whoever was left 
of the S.T.A.R.S. that Wesker had betrayed them all. 
 
Everything was done. Wesker stepped into the 
elevator that led back to level three, running through 
his checklist as he lowered the outer gate and slid the 
inner one closed. 
. . . samples collected, disks erased, power recon- 
nected, Tyrant support off. . . 
It was really too bad about the Tyrant. Ugly as it 
was, the thing was a marvel of surgical, chemical, and 
genetic engineering, and he'd stood in front of its glass 
chamber for a long time, studying it in silent awe 
before reluctantly shutting down its life support. As 
the stasis fluids had drained, he'd found himself 
imagining what it would have been like to see it in 
action once the researchers had completed their work. 
It would have been the ultimate soldier, a thing of 
beauty in the battlefield . . . and now it had to be 
destroyed, all because some idiot tech had hit the 
wrong button. A mistake that had cost Umbrella 
millions of dollars and killed the researchers who had 
created it. 
He hit the switch and the elevator thrummed to life, 
carrying him back up for his final task-activating 

the triggering system at the back of the power room. 
He'd give himself fifteen minutes to make sure he was 
clear of the blast radius, climb down the heliport 
ladder, hit the back road toward town and boom, 
no more hidden Umbrella facility. At least not in 
Raccoon Forest. . . . 
Once he got back into the city, he'd pack a bag and 
head for Umbrella's private air strip. He could make 
the necessary calls from there, let his contacts in the 
White office know what had happened. They'd have a 
clean-up team standing by to comb through the forest 
and take out the surviving specimens-and they'd be 
most eager to get their hands on the tissue samples 
he'd taken, two of everything except for the Tyrant. 
With the Tyrant scientists all dead, Umbrella had 
decided to shelve the project indefinitely. Wesker 
thought it was a mistake, but then, he wasn't getting 
paid to think. 
As the elevator slid to a stop, Wesker opened the 
gates and stepped out, setting down the sample case. 
He unholstered his Beretta, going over the twisting 
layout of the power room in his mind. He had to make 
another run through the Ma2s to get to the activation 
system. He'd already managed it once to hook up the 
elevator circuit, but they had been more active than 
he'd expected; instead of weakening them, their hun- 
ger had driven them to new heights of viciousness. 
He'd been lucky to make it through unscathed. 
At a hydraulic hum from down the hall, Wesker 
froze. Footsteps clattered across the cement floor, 
hesitated and then started for the power room at 
the opposite end of the corridor. 
Wesker eased up to the corner and looked down the 
hall, just in time to see Jill Valentine disappear 
through the metal doors, a burst of hissing mechani- 
cal noise echoing through the corridor before they 
closed. 
How did she make it through the Hunters? Jesus! 
Apparently he'd underestimated her . . . and she'd 
been alone, too. If she was that good, the Ma2s might 
not kill her, and she had effectively just blocked him 
from the triggering system. He wouldn't be able to 
deal with the creatures that roamed the maze like 
walkways and put a stop to her prying. . . 
Frustrated, Wesker scooped up the sample case and 
walked quickly down the hall, back toward the hy- 
draulic doors that led to the main corridor of level 
three. If she made it back out, he'd just have to shoot 
her; it would only delay his escape by a few minutes. 
Still, it was an unexpected curve, and as far as he was 
concerned, it was too late in the game for surprises. 

Surprises pissed him off, they made him feel like he 
wasn't in control. . .  
I AM in control, nothing is happening here that I 
can't handle! This is MY game, my rules, and I will 
accomplish my mission without any interference from 
that little thief-bitch. 
Wesker stalked out into the main corridor, saw that 
Jill had managed to take out a few more of the 
wizened, withered scientists and technicians that 
wandered the basement labs. Two of them lay just 
outside the door, their skulls blown into arid powder 
by what looked like shotgun blasts. He kicked one of 
them angrily, his boot crunching into the corpse's 
brittle ribs, the dry snap of bone loud in the silence - 
- except that suddenly, he heard heavy boots com- 
ing down the metal stairs from B2, the hollow clump 
echoing through the hall. And then a rough, hesitant 
voice calling out. 
"Jill?" 
Barry Burton, as I live and breathe. 
Wesker raised his weapon coolly, ready to fire when 
Barry stepped into view and then lowered it 
thoughtfully. After a moment, a slow grin spread 
across his face.

 

E

IGHTEEN

 

JILL EASED INTO THE STEAMING, HISSING 
room, a thick smell of grease in the heated air. It was 
some kind of a boiler room, and a big one; heavy, 
thrumming machinery filled the large chamber, sur- 
rounded by winding catwalks. Massive turbines spun 
and pounded, generating power in a steady whine as 
hidden ducts spat out steam at short intervals. 
She moved slowly into the poorly lit chamber, 
peering down one of the railed walkways into the 
fluctuating shadows cast by the towering generators. 
From where she was, she could see that the place was 
a labyrinth of paths, twining around the giant blocks 
of noisy machinery. 
The source of the estate's power. That explains how 
they managed to keep it a secret for so long, they had 
their own little city out here, totally autonomous, 
probably had their food shipped in, too. 
She turned down the narrow walk to her right, 
watching uneasily for any more of the strange, pale 
zombies that she'd seen in the corridors of B3. The 
path seemed clear, but with the movement and noise 
created by the turbines. . . 
Something ripped at her left shoulder, a sudden, 
violent slash that tore open her vest and scraped the 

skin beneath. 
Jill spun and fired, the roar of the shotgun drowning 
out the hissing machines. The blast hit metal, pellets 
ricocheting into the empty walk. There was nothing 
behind her. 
Where? 
A lunging, blade-like claw sliced the air in front of 
her face, swooping down from above. 
She stumbled back, staring up at the steel mesh of 
the ceiling and saw a dark shape skitter out of the 
shadows, hooking its way across the grate incredibly 
fast, curving claws at its hands and feet. She caught a 
glimpse of thick spines around its mutant, flattened 
face and then it turned and ran into the thrumming 
shadows of the power room. 
There was a door at the end of the walk and Jill 
sprinted toward it, heart racing, the pounding whine 
of the generators thundering in her ears. 
She was five feet from the door when she saw the 
moving shadow position itself in front of her. She 
raised the shotgun and leaned back - 
- more of them! 
There were two of the creatures overhead, squat, 
terrible things with vicious, curving hooks instead of 
hands. One of them dropped down suddenly, hanging 
by clawed feet to swipe at her with its bladed arm. 
Jill fired and the creature screeched, the blast 
hitting it in the chest. It fell from the ceiling with a 
clatter, thick blood oozing out of the ragged wound. 
She turned back toward the entrance and ran, 
hearing the patter of claws against the mesh overhead. 
Another of the aberrant monkey-like things swung 
down in front of her, and Jill ducked, afraid to stop 
running. The thing's strange arm whistled past her 
ear, missing her head by less than an inch. 
The metal doors were in front of her. Jill crashed 
into them, slapping one handle down and stumbling 
back into the cold stillness of the corridor. The door 
closed on the furious, shrill cry of one of the mon- 
sters, rising high over the sounds of the working 
machines. 
She sagged against the door, gasping 
and saw Barry Burton standing midway down 
the chilled, silent hall. He hurried toward her, an 
expression of deep worry on his rugged, bearded face. 
"Jill! Are you alright?" 
She pushed away from the door, surprised. "God, 
Barry, where have you been? I thought you'd gotten 
lost in the tunnels." 
Barry nodded grimly. "I did. And I ran into some 
trouble trying to get out." 

She saw the splatters of blood on his clothing, the 
rips and tears in his shirt, and realized that he must 
have come across more of those walking green night- 
mares. He looked like he'd been through a war. 
Speaking of. . . 
Jill touched her shoulder, her ringers coming away 
bloody. It was painful but shallow; she'd survive. 
"Barry, we've got to get out of here. I found some 
papers upstairs, proof of what's been going on. Enrico 
was right, Umbrella's behind all of this and one of the 
S.T.A.R.S. knew about it. It's too dangerous to keep 
looking around, we should get those files and head 
back to the mansion, wait for the RPD." 
"But I think I found the main lab," Barry said. 
"Downstairs, there's an elevator at the end of the hall. 
There are computers and stuff. We can get into their 
files, really nail 'em." 
He didn't seem excited by the find, but Jill barely 
noticed. With the information they could get from 
Umbrella's database: names, dates, research mate- 
rial. . . 
We can find out everything, present the investigators 
with the whole, messy package. . .  
Jill nodded, grinning. "Lead the way." 
 
The tunnels had been a cold, miserable maze, but 
the map had led them through quickly. Rebecca and 
Chris had reached the first basement level, both of 
them shivering and wet - and not a little freaked out 
by the dead creatures they'd passed along the way. 
The Umbrella scientists had been disgustingly cre- 
ative in their approach to making monsters. 
Chris rattled the door that supposedly led to the 
heliport, but it was solidly locked, an emergency sign 
next to it implying that it could only be opened by an 
alarm system. He'd hoped to send Rebecca out with 
the radio while he searched for the others. 
He looked down the narrow stairwell and sighed, 
turning to her. "I want you to stay here. If you stand 
by the elevator, you should be able to pick up Brad's 
signal from outside. Tell him where we are and what 
happened - and if I'm not back in twenty minutes, 
get back to the courtyard and wait there until help 
comes." 
Flustered, Rebecca shook her head. "But I want to 
go with you! I can take care of myself, and if you find 
the lab, you'll need me to tell you what you're looking 
at." 
"No. For all we know, Wesker already killed the 
other S.T.A.R.S. and is looking to finish the job. If 
we're the last ones, we can't risk both of us getting